A Blurring of Lines
by Demus
Summary: Every face is a blurred approximation, queasy in his heart, but sometimes it is the flaw in the looking glass that lets us see things for what they truly are. This man's secrets are new, dark, they draw him like a moth. Munich, pre-movie, Ed/alt!Roy.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist

It would have been all too appropriate for the day to be grey, drizzly, biting-cold and heavy with the fog of pollution and misery. It would have made sense for the clouds to be unwieldy and thick with rain and thunder. It would have been fitting for booted feet to splash through puddles, shiny-slick on greasy cobbles, for the city to be a muted sea of dark overcoats and upturned collars, the populace anonymous beneath pulled-down hats and the black shade of umbrellas.

As it was, the sky _was_ cloudy, but Munich's cold was a crisp, refreshing cold today, a lively breeze pirouetting through streets, teasing coat hems and hairstyles, and whilst the streetgoers weren't exactly smiling, there was nonetheless a vaguely contented air over the people.

Well, most of the people.

Head down, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched by some invisible weight, there was one figure who moved as though through winter snow, gloved hands clasped around the handles of two small battered suitcases. His pace was swift, and he seemed to cut through the crowd, working against the meandering organic current rather than occupying it. Something in the rhythm of his walk, something in his wary avoidance of eye contact marked him as different, yet he blended seamlessly with the faceless majority. A stranger, casually observing him from afar, might remark upon his unconventionally long blond hair, or upon fleeting glimpses of exotic golden eyes, but would be otherwise hard-pressed to describe the handsome young man, who moved with a curious, stilted gait and who did not seem to fully inhabit the space around him, uneasy and restless in his manner and demeanour.

The Fullmetal Alchemist was going home, or as close to home as he could get on a world that was not his own.

* * *

Edward Elric was not depressed- he was too irate to be depressed. On a lesser being, however, 'depression' might have been an accurate medical diagnosis. Two years of life without his little brother, without knowledge of whether Al was even _alive_, two years without alchemy…it had aged him, matured him beyond the scant few inches of height he had gained. The bright brand of his anger, that had kept him burning fast and furious for so long, was beginning to waver in strength.

He made his morose way through Munich, streets that were now familiar to him, mentally running over the fruitless trip he was returning from. The professor he'd travelled to consult was, it had turned out, something of a lunatic fake, an apocalyptic prophet of the kind Ed had little enough time for on his own world, let alone here. He hadn't seriously been hoping for any sort of epiphany, long bitter experience warned him against such hope, but the complete failure of the venture felt somewhat like a homunculus' kick to the teeth. Which left him, yet again, with the agonisingly-slow crawl of university study as his only creditable lead on a way to escape this world. Rocketry was such a long shot that Ed occasionally wondered why he tortured himself with any hope at all, but there was more than one thing tying him to his study…

The blond halted at the end of his street, ignoring the brief instances of human contact as the meandering crowds brushed past him. Despite himself, he felt a tiny flicker of warmth glow in his chest, a faint recognition of the downtrodden little borough that he had inhabited long enough to tentatively call his territory _(not 'home', never 'home', his home lay across the stars, miles and miles, or maybe just a heartbeat or a handclap away)_. Familiar faces smiled, or didn't, as they entered his field of vision, and he made half-hearted attempts to acknowledge them- just because he didn't necessarily believe they were genuine, didn't mean he had any right to be impolite. Sensei would have flipped shit.

A friendly pat to the shoulder broke him out of his daze. He turned, lizard-quick, and relaxed as he took in the familiar, uniformed body of Officer Hughes. The policeman touched the brim of his helmet in playful salute.

"Ah, the triumphant return! Welcome home, Edward! Do you bring exotic secrets and mysterious knowledge from the distant lands to which you have intrepidly journeyed?"

Ed raised an eyebrow. Hughes laughed. "I'll take that as a 'no'?"

"It was an interesting trip," Ed shrugged, setting off down the road, not caring whether the man followed him (which he did).

"But not a fulfilling one."

"Not exactly. I'd have been better off staying here for the week and stealing Heiderich's lecture doodles to supplement my research."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

As a second bark of carefree laughter barrelled from the rambunctious Hughes, Ed allowed his lips to twist into a brief, wry smile. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that this wasn't the Amestrian military man who'd taken him under his wing when he first arrived in the big city. The aching symmetry of this world was a constant, broken-glass reminder of everything he missed, inducing a queasy, jarring sort of homesickness- a little piece of something familiar, just different enough to make his heart ache when it was offered to him.

"I'm sorry to hear you weren't successful," Hughes was saying, "but it is good to have you back- Gracia has been worried."

"Oh? And how exactly would you know that, Officer Hughes?"

The man stumbled and stammered, a red flush rising in his cheeks. "Well…er…er, gossip, you know how these little districts are rife with it…um…"

Ed grinned, a full, proper, shark's grin. "Hmm," he hummed, wicked in his obvious disbelief.

Hughes harrumphed and tugged at his cuffs. Ed shook his head. The man was hopeless. How had the Lieutenant Colonel in his world _ever_ managed to get anywhere with his wife, if he'd been like this?

They had drawn level with Gracia's flower shop whilst they talked. Ed's back throbbed as the thought of dumping his suitcases and sleeping for a week wrapped sinuous arms around his brain, and he stepped forwards in a blissful daze, gleefully remembering the soft comfort of his bed, when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something that stopped him in his tracks, as effective as a heart attack.

Oh, _no_…

Bad enough that this world mocked him with familiar voices, familiar faces. Bad enough that his life's quest was fulfilled in a stranger who wore his brother's body with grace and ease, a boy who'd never thought anything of growing into his flesh and feeling the sun on his skin, a boy Ed wanted to _hate_, sometimes, until he smiled Al's beautiful smile…

Bad enough that the arrays in his mind faded, flickered with every breath. With every spark of rocketry knowledge, another alchemical truth slipped silent from his mind.

Bad enough that he woke, screaming sometimes, to the scent of blood and melting iron.

It was all bad enough without _this_. The sight of a rounded face, slanted black eyes and a mess of spiky black hair, broad shoulders and a charming smirk.

Mustang.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own _Fullmetal Alchemist_

_

* * *

It was all bad enough without this. The sight of a rounded face, slanted black eyes and a mess of spiky black hair, broad shoulders and a charming smirk._

_Mustang._

Roy Mustang, in Munich. Ed suddenly found himself praying to a God he didn't believe in for a swift and painless death, screw going home. He watched, agape, as the Colonel Bastard-a-like (he looked _younger_, definitely thinner, dressed in unkempt civvies that were hanging off him, a jarring picture of Colonel Mustang without the misery of military weighing him down) cocked a flirtatious eyebrow at the florist's pretty owner. Gracia, judging by her smile and body language, knew this Roy Mustang well.

A hand dropped, without warning, onto Ed's shoulder, making him jump. He turned to see Officer Hughes glaring in the same direction as he was, green eyes fixed on the German Mustang. Pure, blackened hatred darkened the normally-genial face, so much so that Ed momentarily thought him a stranger.

The policeman's face was curled into a disgusted sneer as he watched the skinny young man across the road smile up at Gracia. "You watch yourself, Edward," he warned, "that filthy degenerate, he's one of those pervert faggots. Bends over for anything with a pulse, deviant _bastard,_ you better steer clear. Just a warning." There was a loaded pause. "Anyway, I have to get back to my beat."

The sheer, vehement _bile_ of Hughes' statement had Ed's mouth dropping in shock as the officer patted his shoulder and moved past him to continue his patrol. Frozen, barely registering the man's disappearance, Ed just stared at the too-young, too-carefree Mustang, who was lifting up a bouquet and fluttering his eyelashes over it in such an exaggerated display of lovelorn pining that Gracia laughed her genuine, wide-mouthed laugh and swatted at him with a clipboard. The friendship between Maes Hughes and Roy Mustang was a universal constant, surely, how could it be anything other?

He'd seen the way Mustang's smirk softened to a smile around his friend, he'd seen Hughes' manic energy subside to a quietness that was somehow more genuine, more _Hughes,_ than his usual frenzy. Ed didn't know their history, in truth had never been interested enough to ask, but there was more to that relationship than just being mess-mates or comrades-in-arms. There was something tense and intimate, something that sang on the edge of Ed's nerves whenever he observed them together, an energy he couldn't identify. He was fairly certain they weren't lovers- a blind donkey in a threshing machine couldn't fail to register Hughes' insane devotion to his family- but there was something unconscious like love in the air that hung between the two men.

To see that deep, enduring bond shattered, ground under heel, made Ed's heart falter a little in his chest.

As he stood there, mindlessly gaping, Gracia glanced up from beating the other Mustang into submission and smiled warmly, waving to beckon him over. Ed hesitated a moment, then acquiesced. His footsteps sounded loud in his ears. During his approach (had crossing the road to the shop always taken this long? The distance was interminable, but he hoped, somehow, that he would never reach the cheery little boutique) he kept his eyes fixed on the slight form of the shopkeeper, steadfastly refusing to look at the other, in case his trembling knees should fail and dump him ignobly to the ground.

"Edward, you unspeakable wretch!" Gracia greeted him, teasingly, when he (finally) reached her and dumped his suitcases, "No letter from your travels, not even a postcard, you had me worried sick!"

Ed shuffled his feet, feigning shame. "Forgive me!" he mock-pleaded, rolling his eyes in elaborate parody of distress. "The barbarian north, you know, they never learned what pens are for!" As he spoke, he could feel dark eyes examining him, which made him doubtful that the flush on his cheeks was entirely false…

Oblivious to his discomfort, Gracia smiled at his antics and looked him over with motherly appraisal. "There's nothing to forgive. But you're still losing weight," she said, softly. The warmth in her eyes made Ed want to squirm. He'd never wanted for her to care about him. Not when he had absolutely no intention of remaining in this world- this Gracia had no adoring husband or sweet-natured daughter to dote upon and it was so difficult to refuse her attentions when he was the sole focus of them. One could only stand upright for so long, after all, without yearning for support.

He shrugged off her concern with a grin. "I've got to keep a slim, rakish figure, you know, my legion of girls would be devastated if I ballooned." He attempted a charming wink, which made the woman laugh.

"Your girls? You must introduce me to these girls, Edward. Your flock of admirers never seems to stop growing, and yet I've not seen hide nor hair of them."

An amused chuckle met this statement. It shivered a spidery tingle down Ed's spine to coil warm and twitching in his stomach. He turned, forcing nonchalance, to face the other occupant of the shop. From beneath a messy fringe, with shoulder-length hair flickering about his face, Roy Mustang offered a boyish grin and stretched out a hand for him to take.

"Anyone who the lovely Gracia teases so must be a man worth knowing," came the familiar voice, lightened by laughter and feckless charm. "Roy Schlachtross, nice to meet you."

Edward took the offered hand, grateful it was the left, and tried a smile. "Edward Elric." He looked up, trying to ignore the warmth of the large hand that enveloped his, and tried to see the Colonel in eyes that had no right to be so expressive. And… 'Schlachtross'? Ed's German was particularly good now, but it was a word he hadn't heard before, it sounded somewhat archaic.

Gracia buffeted the taller man, with force Ed wouldn't have expected her capable of. "If only you fulfilled your name, Roy. Edward, this ragamuffin could not have a more noble title with so little to show for it."

Schlachtross snorted. "Forgive me for not wanting to live up to being a broken old warhorse," he replied, snootily, dropping Ed's hand in favour of waving his own around in a dismissive, haughty manner.

Warhorse…? Of course! 'Schlachtross' was the noun used to describe the knightly chargers of medieval times. The blond was hard-pressed not to laugh. That name was far more suited to his Colonel, and surely something of a wild horse would be fitting for this creature, who looked as though he had never been reined or haltered in his life.

His long hair was shaggy and unkempt, covering a shirt collar that was frayed and faded, and framing a jaw that sprouted the stubble of a man who neither desired nor cultivated a beard, but couldn't really be bothered to shave off the bristles. The brown overcoat he wore was ragged about the hem, mud-stained and slightly shapeless with age and wear. Long legs were similarly encased in material that had seen much better days, faded white at the knees and hanging loosely at the man's waist. Tellingly, his grey waistcoat held no gleam of a watch-chain or flicker of white handkerchief and it was daringly unbuttoned, revealing that the shirt beneath it was gleefully untucked.

Ed's lips moved before his brain could catch up with them. "You look more like a mustang than a warhorse."

Startled by the tart (and random) observation, Schlachtross narrowed his eyes, causing a disorientating moment of recognition, then let out another chuckle. "So, Herr Elric, you suppose I am an untamed force of nature and freedom?"

"No, you've not been groomed for years."

"Touché!" The man sounded delighted. Gracia was giggling behind her hand. She patted Ed's shoulder in congratulations, then her attention was distracted by the entrance of a customer.

"Right you two, that's enough, off with you!" She shooed at them, patting her hair into order. "Go on, go outside and play, stop cluttering up my shop."

Schlachtross raised his hands in mock surrender and left with a wave. Ed was momentarily tempted to point out that Gracia had _invited_ him to clutter up her shop, and his suitcases were still there, and he was exhausted from travelling, but a friendly buffet to the shoulder had him tottering out of the little boutique in the taller man's wake.

"Were I a gentleman," Schlachtross commented, breezily, as he stepped onto the street, "I would demand satisfaction for your remark."

"If you were a gentleman, you wouldn't look like you've been rolling around in fields," Ed snapped in reply. He couldn't help it- the Colonel's lazy verbal fencing had always put him irritably on edge. It was somehow worse to be reminded of it even here, so far from home.

"Hm. You know, I wouldn't have pegged you for the touchy sort. It was a joke, little wildcat, you don't have to dig the claws in."

The jab about his height couldn't be deliberate. It _couldn't_ be. Ed seethed regardless.

Schlachtross seemed not to notice. He stretched, reaching his arms out to the sky and arching his back in a way that made his shirt rise up to reveal a flash of his lean, pale stomach. "Are you busy today, now?"

Ed stared longingly at the door of the shop, wherein lay his luggage and his way of getting back into the apartment. "No," he said, resignedly.

A smirk. "Would you like to be?"

Ed snorted, couldn't help it. "Not in the least. You're a sleaze," he informed the man, whose smirk deepened.

"Doesn't that intrigue you?"

"Nope." The blond considered his companion. "But I _am_ starving, and though I won't put out for a sandwich, you can still buy me some lunch."

At the man's delighted laugh, Ed realised with a jolt- oh ye gods, he was flirting with the Colonel. Or whatever. And the Colonel was, against all natural law, _flirting back_. Hopefully it was just the Mustang instinct and would wear off after a while.

It didn't. But it did give him time to study this latest find.

The ease with which he laughed, the intensity of emotion that flickered in his face- this Roy Mustang knew nothing of the wary masks that the Colonel constructed. There was nothing of the predator in the way he moved, nothing like the feline grace in the Colonel's slow tread. His hands, bare of white cloth, were long-fingered and soft-skinned, not bulky with muscle and calluses from the practise of fire alchemy or years of military paperwork. Where the Colonel's back was held ramrod straight, proudly upheld against the constant strain of existence, this Roy Mustang slouched with elegant repose, completely attuned to the bounce and eddy of the world's rhythmic tides. This Roy Mustang stood on the balls of his feet and sprang restlessly off his heels and fidgeted with nervous, twitchy energy- the Colonel stanced like a fighter, like a duellist, with the stillness of one who had fought to the point of exhaustion and knew the true value of conserving energy.

And yet…every smile held a smirk, taunting and teasing. Dark, dark eyes saw everything, scrutinised everything, captured and catalogued every detail for later reference. His bitter-chocolate voice was deep, deep, harmony-deep, ocean-deep, Ed felt he could drown in the swirling flow of it, in the languid, lazy, rolling current of it. This Roy Mustang raised an eyebrow and Ed would feel a familiar shiver tap dance down his spine and hear an amused echo of _"Fullmetal?"_ whisper in his ears. When Schlachtross brushed close to him, he would catch a fleeting breath of the Colonel's cinnamon and cinders scent, which made him wonder whether aftershave manufacturers had the same ideas in both worlds, or whether Roy Mustang's unique smell was a fixed chemical fact no matter which universe he existed in.

"Is there something wrong, Herr Elric?"

Ed started. They were seated at a park bench, carefully distanced, lost within the vast depths of the Englischer Garten, idly contemplating the flow of people through Munich's largest city park. Ed found himself sinking into the heavy silence between them, his eyes catching now and then on the swirl of a coat edge, of a head of blond hair- this unreal reality in which he found himself was frighteningly convincing, he could almost believe in the people surrounding him. Surrounding him, and yet as distant from him as the familiar faces of his home world…Ah, he'd fallen into what Alfons was now calling his 'broody old veteran' mood, that would explain why Schlachtross was giving him a concerned look. Slumping into melancholy, not quite acceptable in company, no matter how grudgingly you'd accepted the company.

He shook himself awake and offered a small smile. "No, nothing's wrong," he replied, attempting to meet the piercing gaze. At least this Mustang couldn't make him feel like a stupid child just by _looking_ at him. "I…I get a bit…nostalgic when I, er, watch people."

"Nostalgic?"

"Yeah, I, er, I've not been home for, uh, a while." It was feeble, but it would do.

Schlachtross settled back, his face alight with curiosity. "You're not from this city?"

"Nah- the place I'm from is, well, if it was any smaller, it'd pretty much qualify for uninhabited. It was a one-horse town, till the horse died."

That earned him a chuckle. "Ah, you were lucky! The closest we had to a horse was a hay bale that someone got inventive with."

There was a pause.

"_You're_ a country boy?"

"…"

At the raised eyebrow, Ed's cheeks warmed and he ducked his head. The astonishment had burst out of him without consulting his brain first. But…Roy Mustang, born in the sticks? That certainly made no sense. The Colonel belonged in the city, how else would he whore himself around with everything in a skirt and wedding ring? How else could he keep his boots so shiny? He couldn't spend time around mud and grass and cowshit, what would Hawkeye say if he tracked it into the office? His know-it-all smirk would be useless against a charging bull, and he couldn't barbeque a whole village-worth of angry hick fathers/brothers/husbands without incurring some sort of criminal sentence.

The last mental image made the blond grin, which gained him yet another odd look from his companion.

"It's true that I've lived most of my life in cities," Schlachtross conceded, following a long, awkward pause. "Custom in my line of work is difficult enough to drum up in civilisation, let alone on the far side of it."

Ah-ha, a safe topic. Ed wasn't terribly comfortable regurgitating his fictional backstory at the best of times and any sort of Mustang would be hard-pressed not to query it with some kind of blinding insight. "And just what is your line of work?"

"Civilian liaison with the military," the man shrugged. "Playing errand-boy to a bunch of boring old men who think themselves advanced so far beyond the rest of us, they've forgotten what humanity is."

Ed grinned. "Sounds fun. You enjoy arse-licking, then?"

"Hm." Something _flickered_ in the man's eyes, but before Ed could latch onto it, he replied with, "And yourself? What do you do when you're not being held at ransom by tall, dark, handsome strangers?"

"Are you sure it's just the military men with inflated egos, Herr Schlachtross?"

"Of course. My opinion is nothing but stringently accurate."

"Accurate, delusional, I find it so hard to distinguish the two."

"Ah, but what can you expect when you don't complete your basic schooling?"

"…Git."

As Schlachtross snickered, Ed reflected that he probably shouldn't be enjoying himself quite so much.

In truth, he barely noticed the darkness of evening encroach upon them and, as he looked up into the other man's face, he found himself cursing Mustang's ability to throw everything on its head wherever he might be.

Stupid Mustang. Or Schlachtross. Whatever the hell his name was. Bastard.

Some time around eight, with the night well and truly heavy around them, they ended their nonchalant stroll where it had begun, the cheery, but long since locked-up, front of Gracia's shop.

So much for retrieving his belongings.

Ed shuffled his feet, not quite sure what to say. He'd had a reasonably good time, against all expectations. Schlachtross wasn't a smirky bastard manipulator, or if he was, he had nothing to manipulate Ed _for_. Without the distance of a professional relationship, or irritable dislike born of hatred for the cold stare behind an office desk, they got on surprisingly well. The man was intelligent, as quick-witted and wry as the Colonel, but his dry sarcasm held nothing of the bright, harsh sword-edge that Mustang's did. It didn't burn, or sting, or wrench, it just…teased. Ed had forgotten what it was to _enjoy_ being teased.

But that didn't mean he liked or trusted the man.

Not with that naked interest in his gaze.

"Well, uh, this is me so…" Ed trailed off to stare up at Schlachtross. "It was…it was…nice to see you." _Again_.

Lips quirked. "You say that like we've met before."

Ed shrugged.

The dark-haired man examined him, then ran a hand through unruly hair. "It is such a pity that I have to work now," he muttered, "You're even more intriguing by lamplight."

_He had work now? _"Pervert."

"Perhaps I may yet render that accusation accurate."

A splutter. Schlachtross grinned. "Good night, Herr Elric."

"Good night, Herr Mus- Schlachtross."

Ed watched the man's departure, his hand raised to knock at the door. Against the flickering golden glow of the gaslights, broad shoulders cloaked in black could almost have been military in their straightness… It was bad enough that he was stranded here, without Roy Mustang to bugger his life up further. Ed shook his head, flicking his bangs out of his eyes and thumped the wood with his prosthetic hand- his bags were locked inside…hopefully Alfons would be awake.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own _Fullmetal Alchemist_

* * *

"I can't believe I walked all the way up there and the bloody lecture was cancelled!" Ed groused, banging the washing-up about to further express his displeasure.

His flatmate chuckled, good-naturedly. "I would have told you, if you hadn't hared off like that. Why on earth did you suppose I wasn't following? We are on the same course, if you hadn't noticed by now."

"Well, you…I mean, I…Oh, sod off."

Alfons Heiderich laughed again, carefree and unrestrained, and Ed had to squash a grin to hear it. For all that he believed this world was some dream construct, or Gate-induced Hell, he was grateful that it had been populated with people like Alfons. Of course it hurt to see his brother's face (_so like him, tiny mannerisms, the way he moved, the way he breathed, so easy to forget that he was a copy_) but somehow that was better than being alone, since his father had left.

The German boy brushed past him to get to a cupboard, extracting a clean but battered plate and giving Ed a good-natured buffet with his shoulder as he turned. "Never mind, Edward," he teased, "At least you might gain some points for eagerness."

Ed quashed the urge to throw a dripping cup at the man's head. He huffed, loud enough to make his continued irritation known, and hid a smile at Alfons' ensuing snort. Presently, the rustle and clatter of food preparation filled the air. Ed's inner optimist pricked up his ears. He'd been home from his trip for a few days now, and it seemed that Alfons had missed him, if his continuing eagerness to cook all of Ed's meals was anything to go by.

"You know, even if the lecture is cancelled, the required reading will still be important," Alfons was saying, his voice rising a little over the racket of chopping and slicing. "And it's not like we can't get hold of the chemicals from the practical demonstration."

Ed grinned. "You're going to let me blow stuff up?"

"A controlled _demonstration_ of the combustive properties of certain chemicals, Edward. Not a battle re-enactment. Besides, we don't exactly have the money to buy a laboratory to contain all the bits."

The alchemist drooped. "It's not like I'm not _trying_ to get a job," he replied, attempting (unsuccessfully) to keep the hurt whine out of his voice.

A pause in the chopping, and a sigh, then the slide of food from one place to another. "I didn't mean that. I simply meant that we're not in the position to explode our limited budget _just_ yet."

"Hm."

It wasn't that Ed was completely unhirable, Alfons had explained in measured, gentle tones, upon Edward's return to Munich. It was just that, with the economy the way it was, and the influx of outsiders into the city, there just wasn't room in the job-market for an obnoxious, insistent, people-intolerant rocketry student, like Mr Elric. Ed had narrowed his eyes at this explanation, reflecting that Alfons always dressed up his insults with unnecessary politeness, just to make it seem like he wasn't insulting you at all.

A sandwich magically appeared in front of Ed's nose. He dug in instantly, ignoring the soapy state of his hands and Alfons' startled yip.

"You're welcome."

He mumbled a 'thank you' around a hunk of cheese. Alfons nodded, then began to clear away the miniscule mess he'd made. Ed swallowed and cleared his throat. "You're not eating?"

"No." A small, tight smile. "Stomach cramps, I'll be fine later. Plus, I have to go into town and see if I can work an extra shift at the book store, since I unexpectedly have a free day."

"Right." Ed watched his flatmate bustle about for a moment, then wolfed his snack in two bites and scrambled to join in.

"You're coming?" Alfons asked, puzzled, during the frenzy of finding hats, shrugging into coats and struggling with boots.

"As far as the front door," Ed grinned. "The library calls."

True to his word, five minutes later Ed was bidding his friend goodbye. Alfons patted his shoulder in farewell and headed off, disappearing into the crowd of seamless cream-and-brown-and-black-and-grey. Ed watched him depart, his mind darkening bright-blond to honey tones, picturing shoulders a little closer to the floor, a step that had a touch more bounce to it…He sighed. Al, was he, did he…how could Ed picture him so clearly now when in Amestris sometimes, he'd hear a tinny voice and be unable to summon to mind that beloved face? Surely, that had to mean something. Surely…

"My, my, how miserable you look, Herr Elric. Sadness suits you, you know."

Ed started. The deep voice was rich and wry with amusement, and it resonated right down through him to wriggle in his stomach. Though he had had a couple of days to get used to the idea of this man's presence, there was a certain amount of resignation in his bearing as he turned, already well aware of who had complimented (?) him.

"Good morning, Herr Schlachtross."

If anything, the dark-haired man was more unkempt in the morning hours. His hands were tucked into his pockets, doubtless to hide them away from the cruel chill in the air, and he was leaning casually on one leg. Ed wondered why there were shadows beneath his eyes _(like the Colonel's after Hawkeye had bullied him into a late night of paperwork)._ Schlachtross seemed unabashed by the scrutiny.

"Good morning," he returned Ed's greeting, warmly. "You must be greatly troubled, if a 'good' morning can't distract you from your misery- are you perhaps in love with him?" He gestured after Alfons, eyebrows raised in question.

"What? No!" Ed yelped, bristling. "He's my br- flatmate, you freak!"

"Pity. You'd make a lovely pair. Ah, well." Schlachtross shrugged as Ed gaped, disbelieving. "Are you busy today?"

"Are you going to ask that every time you see me?"

A grin. "We've only met twice. That's a poor basis on which to form an assumption. I was, in fact, wondering if you might 'put out for a sandwich' this time."

Ed coloured, spluttered, flailed for a moment, then huffed as Schlachtross laughed, and whirled to storm off. He would _not_ stand for Mustang's mockery, alternative dimension or no! Besides, he had better things to do than provide entertainment for a deviant stranger.

"Ah, wait, Herr Elric, I meant no offence!"

A hand caught his arm to halt him, and he glared up (damnit, the bastard was too damn tall!) at its owner. "Like hell you meant no offence! Get off me, go and chase some skirts around the cafes if you're bored, we're not friends."

Schlachtross gave him the infuriatingly smug smirk. "Not _yet_," he promised, then slipped his hand into Ed's and dragged him off in the opposite direction. "Join me for coffee," he said, blithely ignoring Ed's hissed protestations, "There is so much of this city to be miserable in, you can't waste all that attractive melancholy without an audience."

For all his bitching, whining and repeated attempts to escape without inflicting grievous bodily harm on the man, Ed found himself unable to evade the dogged persistence with which Schlachtross cajoled him into passing the morning together. The city…well, Ed had only ever used its roads to get to the shops, to the library, to the university, he'd never really _been_, or trusted himself to be, a part of them. Bizarre. It felt bizarre to discover a city he'd already been living in for months. Like waking up with the curtains drawn, and then waking up again when sunlight hit your eyes.

So they walked together through the gloomy streets, ignoring the occasional baleful stare of a citizen who found Schlachtross' dark hair and eyes unsettling (it didn't occur to Ed to ask if his companion might have family, let alone Jewish ancestry. The Colonel had always seemed so isolated).

As they went, Ed found himself drawn, helpless to resist, into myriad streams of conversation, debates that gurgled and bounced like brooks after spring rain and every time he opened his mouth to excuse himself, Schlachtross would tip his head to the side, eyes him speculatively, and launch into yet another preposterous theory that Ed just _had _to set him right about. He'd never seen Mustang impassioned, not without some sort of deadly, desirous, murderous intent, it was so jarringly-unusual to experience the man in the heat of debate, in the heat of argument, and he knew, he _knew_ that Schlachtross was an entirely different person with a life and past and future of his own, but that was the Colonel's face he wore. He was an impostor, a jester rattling his bells at Ed's despair, but the wicked grin on his face made Ed want to smile, he hadn't _wanted_ to smile for so long.

In all honesty, he didn't quite know why he was smiling now- the Colonel had only ever managed to wrest a wry smirk from Ed, and more often than not, he'd earned a sneer or a scowl or a scream of rage. Schlachtross was something altogether removed.

And he told himself it wasn't concern for his companion that led him to yank the man into one of the cheaper cafes; Ed was simply in need of caffeine. It had nothing to do with the man's shivering. Nothing at all. Stupid bastard shouldn't be out in _Germany_ without a coat.

Not that Ed cared. Because he didn't. And his brain had to shut up and keep its opinions to itself. For once.

Being under the traditional Mustang-scrutiny across a table left Ed feeling decidedly peculiar. Schlachtross was completely relaxed, entirely comfortable in the space he was occupying, slumped in what was turning out to be eternal repose. Seeing broad shoulders rounded like that struck a queasy chord through Ed's stomach (_nothome nothome nothing like home, nothing like the damn ratbastard Colonel, not like a Risembul sunset, not like Al's sweet, high laughter_) and if he had difficulty swallowing a couple of times, well, the coffee he could afford these days tasted more like acorns and grit than anything else.

"It might be more palatable if it was white."

"Put anything squirted from a _cow_ near my _coffee_ and I'll make you wish I _had_ been busy today."

"Are you aware that caffeine stunts growth?"

"…_Who's so small-_"

Settling into a pattern of snipe, grin, argue, counter, sip, shout, snipe, it was arrhythmic clockwork, tick and tock following upon each other's heels like starving dogs, hasty and eager, not patient and enduring like. Talking at several thousands of miles an hour, odd that his words were intelligible, odd that Schlachtross understood, odd that he _cared_ that Schlachtross understood, and could answer, and feed the flickering flame of discussion.

It was with some shock, therefore, that he realised it was nearing mid-afternoon, he'd enjoyed himself immensely, and he hadn't yet looked at a single book to advance his research. Murmuring a flustered apology, he managed to somehow tie Schlachtross to a chair long enough to escape to the library.

The man's laughter followed him. The rich sound made his ears burn for reasons he couldn't satisfactorily explain. Stupid Colonel.

He hoped Alfons wouldn't consider him even more strange if he barricaded himself inside for a few days.

* * *

Sometimes, he dreamed in crimson and silver.

Sometimes, with nightfall, came a blood-and-steel sunrise in his mind, trapping him with thousands of tiny black hands that grabbed and groped, slavering over every inch of his skin, chattering menace in his ears, nipping and tugging at his skin. _Mine mine mine_.

Sometimes, beneath a dreamt dawn awash with gore and spearheads, he'd open aching eyes to a massacre, purple-bruised violence spewing blood and corpses, crumbling houses burying lives beneath falling rock, dams burst open and roaring in his ears, the hissing cacophony of a thousand gold-crested snakes curled about a thousand stained and splintered crosses.

Sometimes, sleep would bring gaping rib cages, the rattle of breath no longer human, pulsing fat and flesh and muscle, tortured and twisted.

Sometimes the flickering arrays in his mind would glitter like a murderer's eyes or a homunculus's glee, endless rotating gears of alchemical circles, perfect in every detail, magnificent weapons to rend flesh from bone, devour cities, swallow land into a gaping and greedy maw, and from these dreams he would wake with itchy palms and a blinding headache, and with the knowledge to silence the world with a hand-clap.

Sometimes he'd see the most beautiful grey eyes in the world, glassy and dull, unseeing.

Sometimes he'd wrap his arms around his knees and stare blankly at the wall until the real sun rose. Better not to sleep, sometimes.

* * *

"Are you busy today?"

"Oh, for fuck's _sake_!"

"You are? Then I'll wait until this evening."

"Yeah, you better lea- hang on, what did you say?"


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer; I do not own _Fullmetal Alchemist_

* * *

Another day, another distraction. Perhaps if he was discreet in murdering Schlachtross, no one would ever suspect him. God knows, the man had no other people to bother. Almost every other day, there came the infuriating smile , the same damn question, pointless for Ed to answer because he would be whisked off by the dark-haired annoyance whether he agreed or not. If not aimless meanderings through the city, it would be museums to entice his interest, exploration of Munich's overabundance of green places, impromptu meals at tiny restaurants whose locations and names Ed forgot immediately after leaving. How was he meant to find the time to job-hunt if he couldn't escape his new stalker? It was hard enough finding any spare time as it was.

Even if he managed to escape a rendezvous by day, it would invariably be followed up by an invitation by night, made even more frustrating by Ed's complete and utter lack of a social life with which to beg off.

Oh Lord. Colonel Mustang was his social life. Ed prayed for a swift annihilation. The God he refused to believe in refused to grant the wish. This, in turn, proved his non-existence.

He glared across the table at the bane of his existence. Schlachtross calmly took a drag from the cigarette hanging from his fingers and cocked an eyebrow at him.

Ed was a little in lust with the man already, which was insane and disturbing, considering the grip that the Colonel had held over his formative years.

It was the shirts. Permanently crumpled, never buttoned properly, there was always a flash of pale skin the edge of a collarbone that Ed was feeling the bizarrest urge to _nip_, grey instead of white and _hanging_ off the man. He looked eternally windswept, eternally rumpled, not zipped and polished and buffed and braided and perfect (_like the Colonel_).

One tiny positive outcome of the whole thing was that Ed going out occasionally in the evenings appeared to be setting Alfons at ease about his friend's quality of life and bruised sanity. The alchemist could hardly explain that Ro-Schlachtross was driving him to lunacy, not when bright blue eyes flickered with joy on his behalf (_just like Al's)_. It was hardly Heiderich's fault he didn't understand, he'd never been forced to encounter the smirking waste-of-space.

"Have I spilled something?" Schlachtross asked, resting his cigarette in the ashtray and delicately wiping his fingers.

Ed blinked, thrown. "Huh?"

"_Such_ eloquence. Have I managed to drip something unmentionable on myself? You've been glaring at my shirt for ten minutes. I can't think of any offence heinous enough to warrant _that_ look, Herr Elric."

"Leave off with the 'Herr' crap, Schlachtross, you bother me all the fucking time, no use pretending to be civil if you can't butt the hell out of my life."

"Despite repeated verbal attacks upon my person, my morals, my parentage and my intelligence?"

The blond scowled, picking sulkily at the remains of what had been a bowl of soup, before it had been savaged by the wild and noble Elric. "Each one of those is justified."

Schlachtross chuckled. He sat back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table, making no apology or course change when he encountered Ed's ankle, and gave Ed one of his stranger, smaller smiles. "You never fail to fascinate me," he remarked offhandedly.

"Say _what?_"

"Oh, nothing. Dessert?"

"Well, _yeah_, but what do you mean by-"

"I do so love a steamed pudding, don't you, Edward?"

"Whoa, whoa, who said anything about _Edward_? Dropping the honorific does _not_ grant you free access to my given name, asshole."

"So that's a no to pudding? Pity."

"Wha…? How…? You… _Gah!_"

"You're blushing."

"I am _not_ blushing, I'm _furious_-"

"Really, why?"

"Oh shut the hell up, I'm going home. You can pay."

"Ah, tradition is such a fine mistress."

Ed banged the door of the restaurant with only a fraction of his usual fury. He genuinely didn't have the energy or the motivation to figure out that parting shot, or attempt to have the last word. The day had been long, Schlachtross was a pain in the ass, there was no work to be had in the entirety of Munich, the university taught at a snail's pace to pander to morons and Germany still wasn't Amestris. Sigh.

* * *

Numbers and chemical formulae always made sense.

Ed scribbled frantically, books flung carelessly open around him as he calculated, figures flying through his mind with the speed that arrays used to travel through his brain to his fingertips. Next to him, equally absorbed and only a fraction slower and more methodical in his work, Alfons was similarly engaged in complex mathematical wizardry. They had been hunched side-by-side like this ever since returning home from their latest class with the Doctor. The professor had postulated an exciting new method of combining the chemicals that made up rockets' fuel supply that might potentially exist in a more stable, workable state than the current suicide juice that most scientists worked with.

Naturally, the two brightest and most enquiring minds in the class had been mightily inspired by the thought, and now feverish energy was heel-bent on unlocking the secret elixir crucial to success.

Pausing to read over a column of calculations, Ed shook his head, too energized to read over old work, wanting to move on, forge ahead whilst ideas still fizzled and popped in his brain. He hesitated a moment, then Alfons snatched the paper from him and began to scan it, making adjustments here and there, giving the occasional exasperated _tch _at Ed's frenzied spider-scrawl.

Ed ignored him- once the old was being checked, he forged ahead with the new.

Rocketry was an entirely new discipline for the alchemist, but it demanded the same exhaustive knowledge of chemistry and physics, the same inventive scientific mind, and the same turbulent drive as alchemy. And as it was so far Ed's best chance of getting anywhere nearer to Amestris, he'd flung himself into study with the same heartfelt dedication as the quest for the Philosopher's Stone. Alfons seemed to recognise in his enthusiasm a kindred spirit, it was part of why they got on so well, and they were never more attuned to each other than when both blond heads were bent in study.

Sometimes, though, Ed would forget, and jerk his head up in shock when the hand that brushed his was warm flesh, not a rough leather gauntlet.

Nevertheless, this torrid dream never made more sense than from between the pages of a book. Lost in cold hard fact and scientific speculation, it was somehow easier to cope, somehow easier to ignore the anguished voice that sobbed for breath in the back of his mind. _I don't belong here, I don't belong here, I never did, here I am no better than a ghost, and when do ghosts ever find their way home?_

With a low groan and a stretch, Alfons broke Ed out of his study by thumping him on the back. "Drink?" he asked, ignoring the growl of protest.

Ed blinked at him, then rubbed sore eyes, surprised by the dimness about them. "Thanks," he answered, dropping his pen to the table. "What time is it?"

Alfons glanced at his watch as he made his way to the small kitchen. "Almost six."

"Sheesh." Ed gave a low whistle. "We've been at this for four hours." He got to his feet, stumbling on deadened feet as he hunted out matches and began to light the gaslamps. "We should probably eat."

"Why am I not surprised by that suggestion?"

"What, you're not hungry?"

Whatever Alfons' reply was, it was delayed by a coughing fit. Ed frowned- those had been growing more and more frequent- and made his way to the kitchen doorway to observe his flatmate putter about with cups and the battered kettle. "You sure you don't want to go back to the doctor?"

Alfons gave him a fondly-exasperated look. "Who would presumably be accepting me on credit this time? I'm better off buying food and equipment with the money, Edward, you know that."

"Yeah, but-"

"Besides, who are you to lecture _anyone _about taking care of themselves?" The German boy pointedly opened one of Ed's designated cupboards, peering theatrically at its empty shelves. Ed scowled. Alfons grinned- he did it so casually, so easily, and it still made Ed's heart catch to see Al's charming little-boy smile. "I'll get started on dinner, shall I?"

Unable to think of a worthy response, Ed stalked back to the research. He sincerely hoped his little brother hadn't developed any of the cheekiness that Alfons delighted so much in. It would be a terrible waste to have to murder him after spending so much time reclaiming his body.

* * *

One quickly grew accustomed to peering through raindrops, in Munich.

Alas for Edward Elric, who never remembered to take an umbrella. He had always been careless of the little details, little details were unimportant when the world was about to explode around you, but his absent-mindedness had developed to an almost disease-like level in this other world- a symptom of his dreams? It was in the very nature of a dream, after all, to leave its dreamer struggling and straining for detail, grasping for coherence that the trancelike state would not permit.

Needless to say, his day, a long, fruitless trek through the city, in yet another failed search for work, had weighed his limbs with tiredness, fogged his mind with frustrated discontent, and finding his way home through dreary streets would be quietly crushing enough, without the addition of rain.

In all honesty, even though it had incurred hours of automail maintenance, he loved the rains back home. Water, key to life, water that could have travelled the world as much as Ed himself, water with whispered messages, water from teardrops, rich with sea salt and misery, murmuring stories untold into flagstones and roof tiles…and people told him he had no sense of romance.

He snorted.

Unfortunately, whilst he loved the rains back home, being caught in the miserable, torried downpours of this bleak grey city, heavy and pearlescent with smog and pollution, only made Ed's skin long for the clear, fresh caress of a Risembul shower. The sticky, cloying dampness of the air clung jealously to him, thick and itchy, suffocating the oxygen from the air.

Ed huddled further into the shop doorway, cursing as rainwater dripped down the back of his neck from his sodden ponytail. Goddamn German weather. Goddamn shortages meaning he couldn't buy a decent water-resistant coat. His jacket was soaked through, clinging damp and cold to his faintly-bluish skin.

He huffed optimistically on his hands and peered out into the uniform grey of the rain, searching optimistically for some sign of it clearing up.

Across the street, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He stared at it. The door of the bar directly opposite had been flung open, and two figures were stumbling out, clinging to each other. Ed blinked in surprise- Roy had other people to annoy? Schlachtross' companion looked to be older, more thickset, and was attempting to shield Roy with his long coat, but the younger man was having none of it.

Roy's mouth was wide with his carefree laughter, instantly recognizable even though Ed couldn't hear it, and he turned his face up to the sky, spreading his arms wide and spinning with childish glee, seeming to delight in the relentless onslaught of rain. Ed's breath caught at the sight- Roy looked so young, so _happy_, it was a sight he'd never seen before, could never have imagined of the Colonel…

And it seemed Roy's companion was as entranced as Ed. He reached out a big hand to ensnare the younger man, grabbing his arm and spinning him into a broad chest. Roy staggered into the embrace, still laughing, and tilted his head up at his friend, looking him in the eye.

What happened next made Ed's mouth drop in shock.

The stranger leaned down, his hands sliding down Roy's back to cup his arse, and did something to his mouth that looked far too brutal to be called a kiss. Roy, in turn, tucked himself up into the man's grip, sliding his own arms around the bent neck and pressing his hips forwards suggestively.

Heat _burned_ in Ed's cheeks, but he found himself unable to look away, queasiness coiling uneasy in his belly as the two men continued to orally violate each other in the middle of the street. Hughes' words from that first meeting (_he's one of those pervert faggots_) skittered into his brain, and he felt himself collapse against the doorframe, helpless to do anything but stare as the two men eventually disengaged. Roy pulled himself back, stepping light and bouncy, and grasped the older man's hand to lead him away, running with gleeful abandon.

Ed just stared dumbly after them. So, it seemed Roy Schlachtross had genuinely been flirting with him after all. Evidently he'd grown tired of Ed not-getting-it and moved swiftly on to more hospitable climes.

The alchemist wondered why that made him feel oddly lost, cut adrift...

He stayed there for some time, watching the rain, thinking about Roy's smile and outline of his kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: _I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist_

A/N: The rating goes up in this chapter, due to more adult content, just so you know!

* * *

"How was your interview?"

"Not bad."

"Did you get the job?"

"Hard to say."

"Well, what was your interviewer like, did he seem satisfied with your answers?"

"He was difficult to read."

"And the shop?"

"Kinda shitty."

"So you didn't like it?"

"Hm."

"…You punched the man and stormed out, didn't you?"

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer."

"This is the third one, Edward, the third in a week! You can't keep doing this, you need the money!"

"Hey, I'm paying my rent on time, aren't I? Leave me alone!"

"You're paying the rent, but you're not eating! I've not seen you buy food for three days, and you're up all night with your papers- no one can live like that."

"Leave it, Alfons, could you just-"

"I can't help worrying. You keep disappearing during the day as well, you don't tell me where- is your new friend a murderer, that's why you won't bring him to visit?"

"My new fr-? What, you think I'm involved in something dodgy with that guy? Give me a break, I don't even _like_ the bastard!"

"Then what are you doing?"

"You know what? I don't know. I just don't know. Sod this, I'm going out."

"Wait, Edward, wai-"

* * *

Park benches were appalling paces to sit and seethe. The wooden slats dug into Ed's back, making even a glowering slouch uncomfortable, and the damn things were always situated in particularly lovely places, tranquil and picturesque, making the maintenance of any decent sulk impossible for all but the most devoted tantrum-thrower. Edward was fortunately skilled at remaining angry for extended periods of time.

The alchemist glared at the world through the thick curtain of his bangs. God, Alfons could make his blood _steam_. So presumptuous, sticking his nose into Ed's life, offering him _understanding_, like Alfons was such a saint, like he hadn't seen Ed's prosthetics and at once offered _pity_, that worst of human emotions, that feeling that made Ed's stomach churn, made his heart clench. Pity was for the pitiable, not those who could punch through your chest if you looked at them funny.

Gunshot-sudden, the memory of Greed's face and the slick slide of automail blade through flesh skittered across Ed's eyeballs and he physically flinched away from it, hunching his shoulders as if against the cold.

No, Alfons didn't deserve…he wasn't…his only crime was caring for the clingy, aggravating weirdo he lived with.

Ed bent his head, staring at his clenched fists, one resting on each knee. He honestly couldn't stop being a failure, could he?

"Ah? A different melancholy today? And still it suits you, Edward."

Unbidden, Ed's fists clenched tighter as scuffed boots entered the top of his vision, then shifted from sight as their owner took a nonchalant seat next to him.

"Bugger. Off."

Roy laughed, his low, smug laugh (he laughed so easily, _too_ easily). "This is a public facility, isn't it? I shall sit wherever I wish, and where I wish is here."

Ed groaned, slumping further. "Roy, leave me alone."

"Shan't."

"…I'm very seriously _not_ in the mood for you right now, Schlachtross."

"Then you will simply have to bear it, I'm _very_ much in the mood for _you_."

The alchemist continued to glare at his knees.

"Ah, you're so dull today. No rage, no anger, Edward? You must have stormed away from _something_, evening never finds you adrift in the city- normally by now you have retired to your dingy flat and your little rocket friend."

Ed's fingers twitched at the 'little', but otherwise he remained unmoved. Perhaps if he was 'boring' enough, Roy might possibly go away…

Or perhaps the country might suffer a random pork shortage as its swine stock took to the skies. Ed sighed and glanced across at Roy, who looked completely at ease in one of his faded white-grey shirts and especially-rumpled black trousers. The fading light painted his skin an odd, washed-out blue-grey, it gave him a bizarre, ghostly appearance. He was watching the alchemist, as ever, with undisguised amusement, and that tickly, itchy sort of heat that made Ed's danger-attuned senses tingle, ever so slightly. "Why are you here, anyway? Stalking me again?" Ed challenged, always the first to break the silence.

Roy tilted his head to the side. "Not exactly," he replied, smoothly. "I had a meeting with a pedantic colonel that ran late."

_Colonel_…

"Still a military suck-up?" Ed asked, hurriedly.

"Mm. And you? Have you been evicted, or were you watching the sunset?"

"…That's-"

Roy waved a hand, interrupting Ed's indignance. "Ah, tell me later. Come on, it's cold."

Ed let out a surprised yelp as Roy stood and pulled him to his feet in a single fluid movement, then yanked him, trailing in the taller man's wake, down the path towards the yellow-gold glow of the gaslamp-lit city streets. Before he could regain the balance enough to shove the older man's hands away and reconstruct his face with several pounds of steel, the blond found himself standing before the corner-building of the street opposite the park's entrance- a building whose purpose was instantly recognisable.

"I don't think this is a good idea," Ed protested, queasily, as Roy made to step inside the smallish pub.

"Really? Why?" Roy's voice was bright with mock-bewilderment, "I think it's a fantastic idea. You need to relax, Edward, you look like one of those terrible war veterans. Alcohol is nature's best medicine."

"You mean laughter, right?"

There was actually a low buzz of laughter humming from the little square windows, from which emitted the soft glow of homely, cosy light. Ed was even momentarily tempted by it. Roy sighed at the younger man's hesitation and grabbed hold of his arm again.

"I find that the two things go hand in hand, more often than not. Come _on_."

Unwilling, but not entirely unopposed, the blond found himself dragged into the pub's stifling warmth. Roy installed him in a seat at a small round table, then made his way to the busy bar, catching a barmaid's eye with a rogueish smile. Ed smiled, wryly, at the flirtation he knew to be a half-truth and made himself comfortable, ignoring the questioning glances of the other patrons (a mixture of burly men, dressed in varying degrees of scruffiness, most of them seated with the surety of long patronage- regulars, in short).

The pub was small, but lively enough, its atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke and contented chatter. The décor was simple, rustic, traditional, with the gleam of brasses and mixture of whitewash and dark wood. The bar itself was an imposing structure, occupying most of the smallish room, and many of the clientele were seated on high stools at it, rather than at the several little tables like the one Ed himself sat at.

The ex-alchemist settled himself, tugging his collar loose and dropping his jacket from his shoulders- it was stuffy, heated by a roaring fire built up in a massive grate across the room and kept warm by the profusion of people in the place.

Roy returned within minutes with two full pint glasses. Ed eyed the golden liquid and its thick white foam suspiciously. He was not a big drinker, wouldn't be a drinker at all if not for the other rocketry students, and beer had always seemed to him to be a revolting form of liquid bread gone bad. "Thanks," he muttered, ignoring Roy's grin. He lifted the glass, condensation cold and moist, unpleasant on his palm, and took a gulp of the beer.

It was surprisingly light, refreshing, but with the sour aftertaste he had come to associate with all alcoholic beverages. Roy seemed not to notice anything amiss, taking a long pull from his own drink and slouching back in his seat with a happy sigh, black eyes eagerly scanning the crowd as was his wont.

"What is it with you and watching people?" Ed snorted. "You're like a bloody stalker for the whole human race."

"People are fascinating. Especially when they don't know they're being watched- you can learn so much from the way a person moves, speaks, laughs. It's truly remarkable how much we give away with gesture, don't you think?"

"I think you need your head examining." Ed drank again, eager to get rid of the beer and order something that didn't taste like a failed rocket fuel experiment.

Roy's gaze switched to him, so intense that he could _feel_ the change in focus. "Well, well, for someone who despises alcohol, you can certainly put it away."

That should have warned him. That dark, teasing tone, that tone of voice that he'd dream about, and wake hard and throbbing without really knowing why, that voice that the Colonel used at his most _(attractive)_ mysterious, sweet like poisoned honey, rich with hidden meaning and enigmatic intent. He should have known better than to rise to the challenge offered by that voice, because with the Colonel, it had always been like smashing his head into a brick wall, and why should Roy be any different?

By the time the world was growing fuzzy and out of focus, there was a veritable horde of glasses cluttering their table, and Ed's insides were gloriously warm, even if his mind felt odd, dull and unwieldy. His senses, conversely, seemed sharper- had he never noticed _just_ how pale Roy's skin was? What about the tremulous note hidden in the security of his voice, or the fleeting crisp scent of apples in the man's aroma?

"Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"

For a second, Ed couldn't be sure if he'd genuinely heard that. He lifted his head, muzzily, to fix Schlachtross with a wavering stare. "Huh?"

Black eyes smiled at him. "You're beautiful, Edward."

He snorted, a flush rising unbidden and unwanted in his cheeks. "You're drunk."

"I'm more honest when I'm drunk."

Ed…paused. How…How could he react to _that_?

Whilst he struggled to marshal his thoughts, Roy slid his chair closer, reaching out ostensibly to pick up his drink, brushing the back of his wrist against Ed's fingertips where they wrapped around his own glass. "Are you?"

"Wha'?"

"Are you more honest when you're drunk?"

Ed realised, with a delayed jolt, that there was a hand stroking up his thigh under the table. He coloured, fierce heat rushing to his cheeks, and scooting his chair away as quickly as he could, almost falling over in his uncoordinated haste. Roy simply watched him, as calm as he ever was.

"D-Don't…I'm not…"

"Oh no? Then I must have misread the looks you keep sending me," Roy stated, collected and poised as an emperor as he raised his glass to his lips, tilting his head back to drain it. Ed found himself fixated on the arch of the man's throat, on the convulsions of his neck muscles as he swallowed. For some reason, that made his stomach lurch, clumsy with beer and sudden heat. When Roy lowered his head, Ed found himself staring, open-mouthed and panicky, into the man's eyes once more.

"Am I wrong, Edward?"

"I…you, I…"

"Come on, let's go somewhere else. I'm sick of this place."

In one smooth movement, Roy was up, hauling Ed to his feet, so unsteady that he _had_ to lean on Roy or crash to the floor. They pushed through the bustling crowd of patrons, and staggered out into the street.

The cold air hit Ed like one of Envy's infamous high-kicks. He physically started as it smashed through his alcohol-sodden state, but Roy was already tilting the world on its axis by yanking the blond down the street, keeping him disorientated and dependent on Roy's guiding hands. Ed could barely catch his breath to demand an explanation before they were inside once more ascending a dark stairwell to a dank corridor, at the end of which was a door that Roy swiftly keyed open, releasing Ed to sit in a chair before bustling off into the darkness.

Ed gaped into the gloom.

He heard the muffled sound of a match being struck, then a golden glow of light struck his eyes from the right and he flinched them closed. A gas lamp.

He heard Roy's footsteps approaching him, then the faint _clink_ on the lamp being set down nearby. "You can open your eyes," came the amused voice, "The lantern won't bite, and neither will I."

Ed wasn't so sure about that, but he opened his eyes anyway, blinking rapidly. He seemed to be in a small apartment, starkly furnished, and Roy was looking down at him from a couple of feet away, perched on the back of a battered-looking sofa. The lamp had been set on the floor, and illuminated the room with a smoky, golden light.

"Welcome to my humble corner," Roy said, observing Ed's scrutiny, "A little more private than our last venue."

With his head still swimming and his organs still floating about aimlessly inside him, Ed wasn't convinced that this place was any better than the last, even if he did feel a bit less smashed. "Why…?"

Roy waved a dismissive hand, looking unfairly sober. "That bar loses all its characters, all its interest, when the clock ticks around to midnight. Besides," his eyes lit with a sudden, enigmatic spark, "there is far more interesting game right here."

"Game?" Ed repeated, weakly. He was still feeling overwhelmed, cast at sea by the events of the past few…minutes? Hours? "What game, Schalchtross?"

Roy chuckled, and something in Ed _jerked_ at the dark, rich sound. "Why _you_, Herr Elric."

The blond sat bolt upright and squeaked, "_Me_?" before the whirling in his head made him slump back down again.

"You. I find you…so intriguing. You seem…lost, always distracted, but so," Roy hesitated whilst Ed spluttered, obviously searching for the right words. "Dangerous. You have the posture, the walk, of a man who knows how to defend himself and yet…and yet, you are so lost, here in this city, so alone…"

"I have Alfons," Ed croaked, defensively.

"Ah, but he has not taken the misery from your eyes. Look at me."

Ed's head jerked up- that abrupt, suddenly-commanding tone, he'd never quite learned how not to obey _that _voice with _that_ tone, and his breath caught in his throat as the older man leaned back and tilted his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. Here, at last, was the predator, long buried beneath Roy's _joi de vivre_ and casual arrogance- here, in the relaxed slump of his muscles and the intense focus of his gaze, was the danger and intent of the Colonel. For a moment, Ed just stared, dumbly, then his eyes began to wander, helpless to the wordless invitation Roy was offering.

In repose, his clothes hung on his lean form, scruffy and rumpled, flashes of pale skin peeking out from ripped seams. Worse, the shaggy mane of black, glossy in the low light, shadowed Roy's face, bestial, primal. It hung to his shoulders, soft and shiny, like expensive teddy bear fur. Ed's fingers ached to bury themselves in it.

Travelling down, Ed's eyes were fixed on the sharp edge of the man's collarbone for a good few moments, framed by the faded, frayed collar of his shirt. Lounging, as he was, yet with the cautious tension of a cat ready to pounce, Roy's indifference to the propriety of his dress was somehow decadent, delicious and strange. It was ridiculous- an unkempt appearance usually earned nothing more than a sneer from Ed, why, on Roy, now, was it making his stomach squirm and crawl? It spoke to his blood, sang to the wildness in him, that sensual attraction to the untamed, the dangerous.

A sudden huff of breath- a stifled snort of laughter?- drew Ed's attention to the man's chest. Vulnerable beneath a single layer of thin cotton (another observation that made Ed's stomach writhe), Roy's chest was undeniably masculine, firm and broad, but the blond could clearly distinguish the man's ribs, the tightness of muscle over bone.

The Colonel, muffled and smothered in layer upon layer of military-issue cloth, had always appeared so entrenched in the earth, so solid, so immovable, so strong. Roy, on the other hand, was willow-whippy, lean as an adolescent wolf in the harsh grip of midwinter, lithe with the savage cording of a jackal's muscle. The Colonel moved with the sure grace and power of a jungle cat, irresistible force, poised and serene, secure in the supremacy of his potential, a honed and deadly opponent. Roy, even in stillness, had the twitchy wariness of a wild thing, of a scavenger, constantly alert for attack- the Colonel had some of this wariness, but with it a self-assurance bred from a lifetime of breaking fire to his will.

"Your mouth is open, Edward."

Ed coloured immediately, his head snapping up. He leapt out of his seat in a fit of temper and flying coat-tails, drunken fuzziness burning away in the white heat of his anger. Clenching his fists, he glared at the opposite wall. "Fuck off!" he hissed, miserable and furious.

There came the sound of material shifting, then strong arms clasped him from behind with the suddenness of an unexpected downpour, and he was pulled back against the planes of the lithe body he had been studying. He struggled briefly, even as his knees sagged against his will and his skin shivered at the lick of hot breaths at his neck.

"That would be a horrendously bad idea," Roy stated calmly, dragging his hands down Ed's chest, catching in his shirt, to settle gently, chastely, over his hips. "I won't do anything you don't want me to," he continued, his baritone growing husky, "But it looked like you wanted me to do that."

Ed shook his head, his breath catching as their cheeks brushed.

"Oh no? You look at me so much, maybe I thought wrong. You don't want to look at me?"

Before the younger man could summon a reply, Roy slinked his way around Ed so that they were facing each other, his hands never leaving Ed's body so that they now rested in the hollow of his back. "You don't want me to kiss you?" came the question, voiced with mock innocence, with an adoption of a naïve tone that made Ed shiver. The moist heat of Roy's breath was making his insides curl, and it reminded him of rain, sheeting rain, a stranger, the shape of two men kissing…

"You're a freaking deviant," he gasped, the memory of that spied-upon moment sparking in his mind.

A low chuckle, so dry and amused that Ed's stomach clenched and he braced automatically for the Colonel to taunt him with a crack about his height. Instead, his defensiveness was met with Roy, who leaned in to share his breaths and study his golden eyes. "That is true. And I would still very much like to kiss you."

"That's 'cause you have a problem with your brain," Ed explained, his voice as dry as his mouth, with the air of a man talking to a particularly thick-witted child.

"Ah, but what use is my brain when my mouth can do this?"

'This' turned out to be Roy leaning down, tilting his head so their noses brushed as he angled his jaw, ghosting his lips open-mouthed against Ed's own, catching on the blond's lips as they parted in a gasp. 'This' then became a push forwards until they connected, the imminent heat from the man's body mere background noise to the searing warmth of his lips, which moved in infinitesimally tiny, massaging movements against Ed's, taunting and soothing him. 'This' evolved, with Darwinian slowness, to a lazy sweep of a tongue across Ed's mouth and inside to suckle the resistance from his every panting breath.

Roy released him with palpable reluctance and let him drop his head to the taller man's chest. His heart was beating with panicky, rabbit-swiftness, as if it wanted to leap out of his ribcage and make a screaming, bloody run for the hills. His head was no longer swimming with beer so much as lust, drunk on Roy, disconnected from reality but very firmly tied to this man. Ed realised that his hands were now clutching Roy's shirt but he couldn't find it in himself to be annoyed. "Still a pervert," he muttered, hoarsely.

The infuriating, know-it-all laughter, soft and mocking, fluttered iridescent in the air like kingfishers' wings. "Let me? I won't ask for your heart or your soul. Just your smile, sometimes, and your moans as you come, and a little of that sadness in your eyes."

"…Fuck, you sle-"

The speech was too much, too sentimental and clichéd and stupid, but Ed let himself be kissed again anyway, let confident hands drop his clothes to the floor and investigate his prosthetics and roll him onto cool, clean sheets. Nudity, complete nakedness, he was vulnerable under that black gaze, but before he could ponder that thought, Roy was shedding his own clothes and touching Ed, stroking his skin with curious fingertips, seeking out a hitch of his breath, a roll of his eyes, lowering his head to the younger man's body in search of his most fervent reactions.

Ed's body had never surprised him so _much_, how could Roy learn all these things about him that he didn't know himself? How could he know that the brush of teeth to his carotid artery would make him shiver in something not-too-dissimilar to fear? How could he know that large hands framing his ribs would make him arch his back, desperate for pressure? How could he know that the press of lips to his stomach would elicit broken curses, or that the pressure of a yielding cheek rubbing his cock would be almost a stimulating as the expert manipulation of long fingers? How could he know to open his mouth, then pause to glance up into Edward's wide eyes, and _then_ engulf his begging cock in a single, agonisingly slow movement?

He tasted himself in Roy's mouth when they kissed again, and frowned at the bitter, salty unpleasantness, furrowing his brow when the man chuckled at him for it.

The exasperation became something more primal, something darker, when a sneaky hand encouraged him back to full, aching hardness, when Roy rolled them both so he lay on top of the brunette, almost humping into broader hips, then coated his grabby hands with a slick substance and guided him down, behind the man's straining erection to circle and caress his entrance. It was awkward, trying to prepare an older lover, working blind and clueless and more than a little terrified, but Roy's voice remained rich and steady and soothing, up until the moment when Ed's fingers crooked inside him, and his low rumble was lost in a throaty moan.

The lines were somewhat blurred after that. Ed could remember long legs locking about his waist, the dig of fingers at the back of his legs to guide him, inch by slow, agonising inch, the engulfing heat and tightness and friction of Roy's body until he halted, gasping, shaking, buried in the other man's body with Roy's pained breaths and the raging thump of his heart filling his ears.

He remembered arms moving to his shoulders, the first, undulating roll of the other man's hips that sparked a chain reaction, the instinctive pull-and-slide, the rhythm with which he rocked, and rocked, and rocked into his lover, every muscle trembling with the newness, the exhausting newness, the pure _sensation_, his every breath devoid of oxygen as he threw his head back and panted desperately, the jerk of his hips, the slap of flesh, the impact of their bodies, Roy's _heatsweatbreathsbody, firmleantight_, a deep voice wrapping about him, strangling like silk, until he shifted, struck a new angle that made Roy _twitch_ about him, and he was lost, wailing, to a cacophony of desperate, plunging thrusts, his body bent solely to the relentless, furious pursuit of the pinnacle, the soaring, blinding heights of orgasm.

And then, slumping against a broad chest, his eyes sliding closed, barely registering the hand trapped between them, the stickiness coating his belly, his world filled by the deep, low rumble of speech purring from the lungs that lay a mere skin's depth below his cheek.

He slid, helplessly, into sleep, peaceful with exhaustion that, for the first time since his descent to this grey world, was the healthy tiredness of physical exertion, devoid of the cackling ghouls and grey-eyed ghosts that normally haunted his slumber.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey, guys. Sorry about the delay in providing this admittedly short chapter; the lack of response to this story has been rather dispiriting, and I've been busy with life and my other FMA story. Thank you for your patience and kindness is waiting and repsonding :)

Disclaimer; FMA is not mine

* * *

Edward wondered what could possibly have attacked him, to make him feel this awful. His skull felt three sizes too small, throbbing spikes of pain were being insistently nailed through his eyeballs, and his teeth were grinding even before he climbed from sleep. His stomach roiled with nausea- he felt seasick, even though he was lying as still as carrion.

He pretty much felt like carrion as well. His nerve ends jangled, raw and discordant, angry buzzing voices berating him with every tiny attempt at movement. His tongue was heavy in his mouth, dry and swollen and sore as it rasped against his teeth. His salivary glands appeared to have given up entirely and moved out, taking all their possessions with them.

He wanted to violently murder whoever was attached to the hand that was shaking him.

"Herr Elric, you must get up. I have to go to work."

Ed groaned, vehemently, into the soft pillow that his aching face was pressed to. Ye gods, what had he done to _achieve_ an aching _face_? At the distressed sound, however, the shaking stopped, and warm fingertips trailed from the taut muscle of his arm, up and across his shoulder blade, and settled in the centre of his back, resting on one of the discs of his spine. The touch, ticklish-light, made a chill shiver through him, and through the befuddling throb of his headache, he felt the fingers start tracing circles on his naked back.

It was blissful. Soft, repetitive motions, soothing, relaxing slow and sure as the blessed hand massag-

Wait.

His naked back.

His _naked_…

Ed leapt upright with a shriek that set his own ears ringing, and he winced as light struck his sore eyes. Twisting away from the confident touch, he flailed madly against gravity, lost his balance and tumbled, with a _thump_, to the floor. He yelped as he struck the cold, hard wood, then scrabbled into an upright position, flinching as his back struck the freezing upright of the wall, sheets from the bed tangled around his legs (leg**s**, plural, how the hell had he wound up sleeping in his artificial limbs?). He looked up, muscles tensed to pounce (and kill), at the offender.

Roy Schlachtross met his furious-frightened gaze with a blank look. Then he smirked, one eyebrow lifted just _so._

"Good morning, Edward," he drawled, jamming his hands into his pockets and leaning on one leg. "I trust you slept well?"

The blond gaped at him, uncomprehending, then bowed his head and raked his left hand through his hair, digging at his scalp to distract himself from the insistent nagging pain. "What…" he coughed, his throat equally as rough and stiff as his tongue, and he had to swallow with considerable effort before he could summon up enough saliva to speak. "What…happened?" he asked, in a small voice, his eyes fixed on his knees, one sheathed in white, the other protruding from the sheets.

"Now _that_ is insulting."

"You..."

"Bastard? Probably."

Rage, white-hot, flared up, a blazing inferno fed by confusion and humiliation and the Mustang in Roy that made Ed want to tear out his lungs and throttle him with them. "You are such a _fucking_ arsehole, what the hell happened to a decent answer to a question? You're just a _fucking-_"

"Ah, so you do remember?"

The bottom dropped out of Ed's stomach, and he gaped, uncomprehending, wide golden eyes fixed on Roy.

The older man's easy smirk faltered and he drew his hands from his pockets. "Do you really not remember?"

"I remember," Ed paused, glancing away from Roy to inspect the room. "I remember drinking; you took me to that pub and got me drunk, you bastard!"

Roy's hands clenched into fists by his sides. "And then?" The arrogance had gone from his tone, which was now quiet and measured, calm, so unlike his normal speaking voice that Ed would almost have felt concern for him, had he not been so confused.

"Then…then you brought me here, we were talking…about games? You, you said stuff about me," and oh, what stuff it had been, it was all flooding back now and there was the fierce burn of a goddamned blush in his cheeks. "We- shit, we did _that_?"

The grave look on Roy's face made his jaw set like, aha, like the Colonel's, gritted teeth and impatience. "Yes, Edward, we 'did that'. You seemed rather pleased about it at the time."

"Bloody hell," Ed swore, rage overtaking bewilderment, and he leapt to his feet, ignoring the pain in his head, drawing the sheets up with him. "How- Why did we- Why did you do that to me?"

"Because you're incredibly attractive and the loneliest person I've ever met," the man said, folding his arms. "Plus that sexual frustration, no wonder you're so angry all the time."

"Sexu-"

"Edward," Roy said, stated, again with Mustang's voice rather than his own, silencing Ed's fury before it could start. "Yes, I got you drunk. I don't know if you're fear of being touched comes from your prosthetics, or from whatever causes that misery in your eyes, but you _needed_ to be touched. And," he added, with a smirk, "I'm afraid I very much needed to be the one touching you."

A little unnerved by the bluntness of Roy's reply, Ed found his anger wavering back towards uncertainty and drew himself up, falling back on indignation. "You _got me drunk_ and _assaulted_ me!" he accused, his voice rising to a shriek.

Roy's smirk widened. "Is it assault if you enjoy it?"

Whilst Ed spluttered, the older man moved, with swift steps, to stand closer to him, barely a foot away. "You may hit me, if you wish," he said, earnestly. "But I suspect your hangover is troubling you too much for you to be able to aim, you need to get some sleep, and I really am terribly late for work now, Edward."

He was right. Ed's head was pounding like he'd taken a beating from Envy, his stomach tossed and heaved with every breath, and he was far too tired to maintain any decent semblance of rage. He slumped, felt Roy step close enough to embrace him, and couldn't even summon the energy to snarl. "We're not done," he managed to mumble, into Roy's collar, and the man laughed.

"I should very much hope not."

* * *

"Where were you?"

Ed closed the door behind him as quietly as he could. The walk back, even in the dull, grey light of Munich, had been torture. Roy had more or less manhandled him into his clothes (with much protesting from Ed) and pushed him out onto the streets with a promise to visit him later. He wasn't entirely convinced that the flutter in his stomach at that promise had been anger. "Bloody Schlachtross got me drunk. Had to stay at his place. Stupid bastard."

Alfons' eyes were fixed on him, intent and serious, as if he could read what had happened merely by looking. Softly. "I was worried."

Ed's cheeks coloured. "Why?"

"It wouldn't be the first time you've slept on a park bench." A sigh. Alfons opened his mouth to continue, then coughed, sudden, harsh. Ed noticed, for the first time, that his forehead was shiny in the low light, faintly beaded with sweat, and he was wearing a threadbare cardigan over his shirt. His flatmate looked tired, moving stiffly away from Ed into the kitchen as if his heavy limbs ached with the tiredness that slowed his steps.

"Hey, Alfons…" he paused, unsure what he wanted to say.

The taller student half-turned in the doorway, one hand resting on the wooden frame. "Edward?"

"You didn't…you didn't stay up waiting for me?" It wasn't a question, Ed knew as soon as it fell out of his mouth, it was a plea.

Heiderich turned away, his back straightening, tightening, in response. "No," he replied, curtly. "Why would I do such a thing, for someone so determined to push away any attempt at compassion?"

Ed gaped, his coat dropping from nerveless hands to crumple at his feet as his flatmate disappeared out of sight.


	7. Chapter 7

N.B. Could the updates to this fic be more haphazard? Ack, sorry lads and lasses...

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Cooking with a hangover, he had discovered, was a monumentally stupid idea. It was worth the nausea and dizziness, however, to see Alfons' mouth drop open at the sight of the kitchen table covered with pancakes, three types of sausages, bacon, eggs and fried mushrooms. Ed ducked his head, stomach churning, and said, "So, whatever, you shouldn't stay up all night when you're sick."

The German boy made his way to the table, pulling back one of the chairs to sit down with slow, wondering movements. "Surely you didn't cook this," he replied, the hoarseness in his voice tempered by disbelief. "Have I slept too long and dropped straight into heaven?"

"Oh fuck off."

"Ed, I've seen you burn a salad."

Ed folded his arms across his chest, tugging the dead weight of the prosthetic with now-practised ease, and glared until Alfons raised his hands in surrender.

"All right, all right, I take it back, you're a culinary genius. How did even afford-? No, I don't want to know." Blue eyes met Ed's, dancing with that familiar impish happiness (_Nii-san!)_, and the alchemist's heart stuttered in its beat. "Come, friend Edward," Heiderich said, clearing his throat with a wince. "Taste the fruits of your labour."

There was silence between them for a while, broken only by muffled sounds of enjoyment and the occasional growl when Alfons' hand strayed a little too close to Ed's plate. Ed's head began to clear around the third pancake, the weird feeling of bloated nausea receding with every bite, and he found that even his headache lessening as he munched through his (and half of Alfons') breakfast.

In the meagre sunlight pushing through their grimy windows, winter-grey but with the tiniest brightness of Spring's approach, Alfons looked only a little better than he had when Ed stumbled in; still pale, though pleasure flushed his cheeks, still coughing and still too damn thin, the German looked as though he might fade away at any moment. Ed's flesh hand clenched, involuntarily. Was Al...?

Alfons interrupted his musings by sitting back in his chair with a satisfied groan. He rested his hands on his stomach, throwing Ed a smile, and tipped his head back, eyes sliding closed. "Oh, all of your sins are forgiven," he said.

_If only it were that simple, _Ed thought, wryly, but he quashed the sudden rush of bitterness before it could drag the smile off his face. "Even the ones you don't know about?"

"Especially the ones I don't know about." Alfons opened his eyes, glancing across, brows lowering with thought. "Edward, your friend, Herr Schlachtross...It's not that I'm not happy for you, I am, but a man like him...Well, he has a reputation and-"

"It's fine," Ed interrupted, hurriedly, abruptly reminded of Officer Hughes' warning and desperate never to hear that wretched bile from his brother's mouth. "Honestly, it's fine, I, er, know all about...it," he lied. Two years had taught him to be good at lies.

Alfons was frowning. "Well, if you're sure…"

"_Are you sure?"_

"_Ah-HAH, Roy, ah-"_

Ed felt himself blush, ducked his head, directed his gaze to the floor. "Yeah, he's…he's a good…friend."

"_My, my, I think _this_ wants to become friends. Good evening, sir, meet my right hand."_

It took a superhuman effort to suppress the squeak that nearly erupted from his throat. Alfons appeared not to notice; his expression cleared and he grinned again, thin cheeks still flushed. "Then if he is your friend, he is my friend."

* * *

Ed's tiredness well and truly caught up with him after they'd cleared the breakfast things away and Alfons sent him to bed with a laugh, promising to take extra-neat notes for him to copy. Ed, grateful that the haunted, suspicious look had gone from his flatmate's eyes, readily acquiesced and dozed the day away, for once untroubled by visions of flesh in purple and black. It was with some regret, therefore, that he found himself being tugged into wakefulness by a faint, ticklish pressure on his left hand.

He opened his eyes, nostrils flaring to take in a familiar, coffee-and-cotton scent, and was somehow entirely unsurprised to see Roy stood next to his bed, one long-fingered hand tracing the veins on the back of his hand.

"So, what, you're a housebreaker now?" Ed asked, with what he thought was admirable calm, then utterly destroyed the illusion by shooting upright when Roy leaned down.

The man smirked at his nervousness, moving to sit on the bed – his shirt, as ever, gaped open and _God_, Ed knew how that patch of skin _tasted_ – and reaching out to stroke Ed's nightshirt-clad arm. "It is such a waste for you to sleep clothed," Roy said, utterly ignoring the question and Ed's resultant snort. He was wearing that worn face again, the one that sagged like the Colonel's after a hard, hard day, and something inside Ed's stomach twitched.

"Yeah, well, not all of us are fucking perverts," he retorted, before the flicker of sympathy could blossom. He twitched his arm away from Roy's touch. "Come to assault me again, have you?"

"My, Edward, so _bold_," Roy drawled, shaking out his hair – Ed would have protested, but the swing of black tresses over the man's shoulder sent him right back to the previous night, Roy's hair tickling against his thighs as he pushed, whining, into the man's mouth, the ungraceful sprawling fan it made against the pillow as Roy writhed beneath him...Ed swallowed, hard, and dug his prosthetic hand into his leg to distract himself. "-n fact, I wondered whether you would like to join me for dinner. Your friend appears to be absent, and I am certain we have much to discuss."

Ed scowled. "Like why you're never going to break into my flat again?"

"I never make promises I can't keep." Roy hesitated, shifting where he sat, then met Ed's eyes with what amounted, in any Mustang-clone, to sincerity. "Besides, I told you that you could hit me, if you so wished, and you haven't yet chosen to do so."

The alchemist bristled. "Don't think I won't! I'm just too fucking tired to aim right. Probably blacken your eye 'stead of breakin' your nose and I don't want to waste a good punch."

Roy laughed again, that low, purring chuckle from deep in his chest. Ed's blood pulsed in response, burning for a split-second in his veins, and he quashed the shiver that threatened. "Dinner, then?" Roy said, lightly, and suddenly he was standing, leaning in close before he straightened up to brand Ed's lips with a swift, chaste kiss. "Wear something...easy to remove," he murmured, the words hot and moist against Ed's mouth, and then he was gone.

It said a great deal about the effect this had that Ed was unable to stir himself enough to throw something before Roy had escaped through the bedroom door.

* * *

By the time Ed had managed to scramble into some clothes (the shirt with the tiniest, most difficult buttons) and down the stairs, Roy had made himself at home in the kitchen and was flicking idly through a sheaf of discarded notes. Ed, keeping the table between them like a shield, scowled. "What, you're interested in my research now?"

Roy glanced up. "I'm interested in everything about you," he said, lightly. "You never fail to fascinate me."

Ed's scowl deepened. "I should've known that was one of your cheap lines. How many poor idiots have you trotted that one out for?"

"Why, are you jealous?" came the reply, complete with a smirk that shot unwelcome butterflies through Ed's stomach, and Roy got to his feet. "If you must know, that 'line' is solely yours. Shall we?" He offered his arm, for once covered in the faded brown of his overcoat, and Ed glared at him.

"Just because you got me drunk and-"

With a laugh, Roy held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, the movement pulling his shirt tight across his chest. Ed found his gaze catching on the gape of his collar, the sharp jut of Roy's collarbone. "After you, then, Herr Elric," the man said, tilting his head so that his fringe fell into his eyes, shadowing them. Ed felt an unaccountable urge to step closer, to look deeper into those shadows, but instead turned on his heels, aware of a fierce burn in his cheeks and an amused laugh that followed him out the door ahead of Roy.

'Dinner', as it turned out, was an actual meal in an actual restaurant. It was a crooked, crampt little place, tucked in the middle of a street whose cobbles were chipped and uneven, whose streetlights guttered low, if at all. Suspicious eyes stared from the alleyways, hunch-shouldered figures hurrying past them with eyes downcast, but the restaurant itself was an oasis of warm light and raised voices. Once they were inside, pushing through the modest crowd of happy diners (all male, Ed couldn't help but notice), the waiter greeted Roy with a smile and a kiss on the cheek, an effusive torrent of Italian spilling from his lips until Roy, smirking, gestured to Ed and replied in the same fluting language . The waiter turned an interested gaze on the alchemist, dark eyes appraising, and Ed felt his shoulders hunch defensively. He hoped his glare was enough to communicate that he wasn't a piece of meat to be ogled, but the small smile and flutter of hands that resulted didn't convince him (he didn't actually mind, as such; his mind had snagged on the peculiar rasp that Roy's voice gave to the other language, Italian tripping form his tongue as easily as innuendo, and he wondered if the Colonel spoke Ishbalan with the same throaty richness).

Roy, exchanging a final pleasantry with the waiter, shepherded Ed to a table towards the back of the restaurant and threw his coat over the back of the chair with a flourish. "You'll like it here," he said, as Ed lowered himself into the seat opposite. "They serve all night and you won't find a chef more talented for such a pittance."

Ed grunted in a non-committal manner, glancing around; like most of Roy's favoured haunts, the restaurant was old, dingy with age rather than neglect, and bustling with humanity. Men lounged in their chairs with Roy's quiet carelessness, chatting and laughing, eyes bright with alcohol and emotion. The younger amongst them were particularly animated, their hair perfectly coiffed and their thin limbs clad in tattered finery as they jested and joked. Smoke from myriad cigarettes coiled restlessly through the room, tumbling clumsy from the mouths of the diners before rising, irresistibly, upwards.

Ed turned to his companion, unsurprised to find dark eyes studying him with the same intense scrutiny he'd given their surroundings. "Does it suit, Herr Elric?"

"It'll do, I guess," he allowed, slouching back into his chair. "Do they have menus in this place, or is it more of a soup kitchen?"

Roy chuckled. "Emilio would never do anything as crass as provide menus. If you don't want the food he provides, you're probably not human."

"It'll be dry crackers for you, then?"

"You wound me."

Ed snorted. "Not likely, Schlachtross. What is this, anyway, some sort of apology?"

"Apology?" Roy repeated, lips pursing. "For what would I be apologising?"

The alchemist felt his cheeks flush immediately, skin prickling as he shifted in his seat. "Nothin' I want to say out loud," he hissed, glancing nervously at the nearby tables.

"Oh, I could never apologise for a sexual awakening," Roy said, blithely, apparently unconcerned by the press of people around them. "No, no, this is just another tawdry seduction. I hope you don't mind?"

Before Ed could splutter a response, the waiter returned, placing a glass in front of each of them and uncorking a dusty-labelled bottle with the swift efficiency of much practise. He poured a liberal measure into each glass, leaning a little closer than was comfortable as he did so, then whirled away into the smoke. Roy took a sip from his glass, eyes focused on Ed even as he tilted his head back to swallow, and set it down with a small sigh of satisfaction. "Well?" he said. "You appeared to be skirting the edge of apoplexy but a minute ago, have you changed your mind?"

"Changed my- You've got a fucking cheek, you-"

"You're blushing, by the way, it's delightful."

Wrong-footed by the compliment, fury tangled up with something deeper, something darker that licked at the edge of his senses and had everything to do with the scent and sweatslick slide of pale skin, Ed gaped stupidly at Roy, that itchy, restless heat prickling relentlessly through his veins. "Fuck," he said, in despair, after a long moment.

Unperturbed, Roy took another serene draught of wine. "Yes, that's the general idea. Drink up, Edward."

* * *

"Basil," Ed heard himself say, distantly. The lips against his curved into a smile, then the basil-flavoured tongue whipped all thought from his head. Long fingers were plucking ceaselessly at his clothes, catching in the cotton of his shirt and sliding beneath to find his skin, icy-cold fingertips that made him curse and shiver and press closer to Roy's lean, accommodating body. The older man's hair was roughsoft to the touch, tangling around his own fingers as he carded them through thick black tresses and tugged. Roy murmured into his mouth, soft encouraging nonsense that would have elicited a punch had Ed not been caught up in his embrace and being kissed breathless.

Glad of the dark, and of the wine, and of the feverish touches, Ed drew back for a gasp of air that was shockingly cold against kiss-warmed lips and found it stolen away in the next heartbeat, Roy's nose brushing his as he tilted his head to find an even more perfect angle.

There was wood at his back, all of a sudden, wood that dug its patterns into him, and he braced his shoulders against it as Roy ground against him, blessed glorious pressure and friction, and he was making strangled noises at the back of his throat as he scrabbled for grip, for purchase, and awkwardly rocked his hips to meet Roy's haphazard thrusts.

He wondered, briefly, whether it was standard procedure to drag your dinner companion to the bathroom halfway through a messy wrestle with a plate of spaghetti. Certainly, no one in the restaurant seemed to have minded.

Roy's hands were stilling him, fumbling at the buttons of his pants, pushing his shirt out of the way so that he could...

Ed groaned. Trust a Mustang to turn him into a deviant.


	8. Chapter 8

N.B. Hoping to get this finished before too long :) Thank you for your patience, my lovely readers, and particular thanks to those helping the process along with feedback – we silly creatures thrive on it, eh?

* * *

It was somehow surprising that Alfons didn't seem to approve of his new friend once he'd actually _met_ Roy. Al had been so quick to think the best of everyone, had so clearly despaired of his brother's animosity towards the Colonel, that the distrust in Heiderich's eyes was yet another reminder of the differences between bright blue and smoky grey, between honey blond and wheat blond, between his little brother and the man he shared an apartment with. Ed wasn't sure what to make of Heiderich's suspicion of Roy's dark eyes and black hair, he only hoped that it was enough to distract Alfons from the newer, more…personal aspects of his relationship with the man.

In all honesty, he counted himself lucky that Roy hadn't pounced Heiderich as well. The spark of interest had been there, right up until Ed excused them both from Alfons' company and threatened to slice Roy's balls off with a rusty spoon if he tried anything. Which, unsurprisingly, had caused a corner of Roy's mouth to flicker upwards into a flirtatious smirk, the sort of smirk that Ed now associated with sweat beading flushed skin, and desperate, flailing limbs, and oh hell he did _not_ have an erection in the foyer.

He'd been forced to smack Roy with his prosthetic hand and stalk off to the bathroom with an angry snort, determinedly ignoring the amused chuckle that followed.

* * *

Sometimes, he dreamed in cobalt and bronze.

Sometimes, with nightfall, came an onwards rush of the tide and with it the stench of death, row upon row of glass tanks and shattered lumps of unlife within.

Sometimes, beneath a dreamt sunset, the faded umber of the desert stretched endlessly before him, ringing to the high shriek of the wind and the muted, animal yelps of dying children, clouded with fire-smoke and the grease of vanished lives, desolation in the shift of ancient sand over bloodied, broken bodies.

Sometimes, sleep would bring fire so cold that it burned, a smirk and a click and an eternity of conflagration.

Sometimes, the flickering arrays in his mind dissolved into the muddy emptiness, rattling to silence like the last frantic gasps of a hysterical soldier, withering even as he reached for them and tearing themselves from his mind to leave only ragged-edged wounds, jagged and yielding, and from these dreams he would wake with leaden limbs and heartache so fierce that it stopped his breath, the bright brand of knowledge greying and turning to ash.

Sometimes, he'd see dark, dark eyes turn cold, hating.

Sometimes, he'd wrap his arms around his knees and stare blankly at the wall until sunrise, not daring to long for a warm body beside him. Better not to sleep, sometimes.

* * *

"Are you busy today?"

Ed forced himself to look up, gaze lingering on the twitch of a racing pulse beneath pale skin, then up until it reached slumberous eyes, and groaned when Roy shifted, tightened, around him. "Y- You're asking me that _now_?"

Roy 's mouth twisted in time with his hips, wrenching a groan from the alchemist, and he dug his fingers into Ed's back, sharp pain scything through the heady throb of pleasure; Ed grunted, _thrust_, felt Roy's fingertips drag down his back, sliding in his sweat."Why not now?" Roy murmured, now cheek to cheek, his lips a warm, filthy caress to Ed's ear. "I plan to keep you here all day."

"Tough shit. Got lab work."

The German huffed, sudden cool air that startled through Ed's hair. His hands tightened, pushing, and Ed heard himself whine as Roy wrestled him away; pulling out of that body was a crime, a sin, Ed didn't know what he'd done to deserve such a punishment, then Roy was scrambling up onto his knees, looking back at Ed over his shoulder as he reached a hand back to spread his oil-shiny buttocks. "Are your rockets more important than this?" Roy purred, in a tone of mock hurt. "_Edward_."

No one should be allowed to say his name like that. No one, not even dream-figures from an unreal world. Roy laughed as Ed lunged forwards, almost falling when his prosthetic leg failed to cooperate, and pressed himself back into Ed's urgent grip, still laughing when Ed found the brain power to actually aim rather than rubbing against him in a frantic, though slightly ineffectual, manner."Roy," the alchemist growled, as he pushed into slick, tight heat. "Roy, I-"

The reaching hand, which had grabbed onto Ed's hip to drive him in, released its grip, questing for a moment before finding Ed's right wrist. The alchemist struggled for a moment but Roy was insistent, tugging until Ed relaxed and rewarding him with an internal flex of muscles that almost made Ed go cross-eyed. "You have never touched me with this hand," Roy told him, arching his back as Ed's left hand latched onto his waist for balance. "Why – _oh_ – why so scared?" _What is it that you fear, Fullmetal?_

"Hurt you," Ed managed, between gritted teeth, and Roy's laughter sent delicious shudders through his body, throwing off Ed's already erratic rhythm.

"I'm difficult to hurt," his lover promised. He pulled again, guiding the fake limb with his own hand, and his hips jolted as he pressed himself against it, tossing his head back with a groan. "Oh, I love this hand," Roy gasped, rocking back onto Ed's cock, forcing him deeper, deeper, then forwards into mechanical fingers tangled with his own.

The tiny part of Ed's brain that was still functioning might have sighed if it had been receiving any bloodflow; clearly any plans to get to the lab had been thoroughly and expertly thwarted.

* * *

The drizzle was beginning to seem endless. Ed stared into the rain and pondered whether reusing the same weather patterns was a limitation of the dream. The streets were busy at this time of day, those with jobs bustling home, hunched 's'-shapes in their longest coats, blind to the idle drift of the city's unemployed. The lamplighters made their uneven, tottering way along the streets, balancing their precarious, rot-eaten ladders against bastions of cast iron, bringing a slow golden glow to the rain's impenetrable fog. They were invisible in the crowds, mere cogs in the city's clockwork, vital and unseen, and Ed watched their progress, musing on the likelihood of a dream that only knew two types of weather yet an infinite variety of human lives.

"Edward?"

Startled, Ed tensed, hands poised to clap, and swung around to face the speaker (too slow, too damn slow, too long spent in this world where danger didn't spring out from behind every rock) – Gracia, umbrella in hand, smiled at him, her eyes crinkling prettily with amusement. "You must have been up in the sky with your rockets," she said, impishly.

"Something like that." Remembering his manners, he gestured for her to join him, pulling out the other chair at his table and vaguely signalling the waiter for another coffee. "What brings you here?"

"I might ask you the same thing," she replied, watching him resume his seat with interest. "Since when do you know the way to places other than the library and the university?"

"Since your friend Schlachtross began his campaign to ruin my work."

"Roy? You've taken up with that scoundrel? No wonder you're in this part of town." Gracia shook her head, leaning forwards, her smile turning conspiratorial. "You must know that this quarter is infamous for-"

The arrival of the waiter halted her revelation. The cup set in front of her looked to contain as much actual coffee as the average bartender's rag, but the generous provision of a sugar bowl (provided, Ed had noticed, only to the attractive female clientele) redeemed it somewhat. Nevertheless, Ed grimaced as Gracia stirred the liquid. "Sorry," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "Student living doesn't really stretch to the real stuff."

The shopkeeper clasped her hands around the cup. Her smile didn't falter, not for a moment, and she tutted at him. "What's an acorn coffee between friends?" she asked, lightly. "Besides, the way things are, not even our mutual friend could charm his way into getting a cup of the real stuff."

Ed snorted. "Couldn't charm his way out of a paper bag, the smarmy- er, person."

Gracia chuckled, her cheeks beginning to dust with a faint flush in the warmth of the cafe. "I wouldn't bet on it. He's charmed his way out of far worse things."

_Is there anything worse than a beating from Hawkeye? _The joke was on his tongue before he knew it, an old joke for an old friend that _didn't belong_ and he hastily swallowed it, burning like bile down his throat and turning his stomach. "Oh yeah?" he managed, after a moment. "Any examples?"

Fortunately, Gracia had been too involved in taking a sip of her drink to notice, not even that gritty tastelessness enough to steal her smile. "Plenty! I'm surprised he hasn't told you himself, it's not like him to be modest."

Ed made what he hoped was a sound of tacit agreement; his mouth, still bitter from his unsaid words, had gone completely dry, memory tossing up an unsolicited image of Roy sprawled catlike across the sheets, shameless in his nudity and stroking himself with a languid hand, one eyebrow quirked. _"You're gaping, Herr Elric. Might you put that mouth to better use?" _He pushed the image aside with difficulty, resisting the urge to cross his legs, and forced himself to focus on Gracia's light tones.

"-ways remember the time he turned the bailiffs away from my door with nothing more than a few quiet words and that smirk of his. You'd have thought he was the mayor himself, the way he faced those men down – business had been...slow and finding the rent for that month had taken more than I was capable of. I could have lost the shop, my home..." Gracia trailed off, staring into the distance for a few heartbeats, then turned back to Ed, her cup making tiny clinking noises against its saucer as she fiddled with it. "Roy...he's not what they say he is, Edward. He's a good man. Better than...than many."

Sensing her distress, Ed hurriedly changed the subject, turning the conversation to Officer Hughes and his failed attempts at courtship, Gracia's words circling all the while in the back of his mind; who _was_ Roy Schlachtross? And what exactly did people say about him, that made Gracia's face darken so?

* * *

"...Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"Which is reason enough for you to break into my flat, I suppose?"

Ed spluttered, wrong-footed, and Roy smirked. Despite the chill inside the apartment, he was clad only in a royal blue robe, the garment gaping at the neck and barely covering his thighs, and the sight of all that skin beneath that particular shade was doing odd things to Ed's insides. "My meeting with the General ended earlier than I'd anticipated. It seemed more sensible to come home rather than moon about the office."

"Or do your paperwork." Some things were universal, it seemed.

Roy shrugged, broad shoulders pushing into blue material, filling it, and the familiar feeling of memory-vertigo clenched at Ed once again. "Why do paperwork when delightful blonds are lining up to pick my locks? Come through," he said, turning to wander in the direction of the tiny kitchen, his hips swaying a little more than usual. "Was there...something you wanted?"

No easy way to say the truth, that the greyness had been far too grey and the weary drag of time so heavy that he had to _do something before he went mad_, so Ed followed Roy, toying with his gloves. "Nope. We've reached a dead end with our calculations, so-"

"So you lie to me," Roy said, casually. He dropped into a chair at the table, a postage stamp of a thing with a half-empty bottle of whisky and a half-full glass as its only decoration, and studied Ed. "Ah, that sadness, so compelling; you've forgotten how to carry your misery, haven't you? A body can only distract you for so long, hm?"

Dsconcerted, as ever, by the man's infuriating perceptiveness, Ed sat opposite him and hoped his frown was forbidding enough to stem the insights. "Don't know where you get all that poetic crap," he said, abruptly. "Misery's for people who have too much time on their hands, I've got things to do."

"Which is why you're here, of course," Roy said, serenely, causing Ed's teeth to clench. He opened the whisky with a practised hand, pouring out a liberal measure and raising it in Ed's direction. "Will you join me, oh fulfilled one?"

"What, before noon? You drink too much."

"Perhaps it is you that does not drink enough?"

Ed scowled, and leaned across the table to snatch a whisky-flavoured kiss from his aggravating lover. He pulled a face as they disengaged, sitting back to sneer. "No. It's definitely you. That stuff makes you taste like shit, stop drinking it when I come over."

Roy eyed him lazily, unperturbed by Ed's random disbursal of affection, and took a slow, deliberate swig from his glass. "We all have our vices, Edward."

"And you have enough for the whole of fucking Germany, put the damn booze away and get that robe off. I'm bored and pissed off, and you're not helping."

"Well." The sound of the lid being screwed into place was another rasp on Ed's nerves, but it was quickly followed by the press of Roy's lips to his own, which was infinitely less annoying. "I hate to see you suffer."

"Liar," Ed accused, chasing Roy's kiss with an open-mouthed assault of his own.

The whisky remained abandoned for the rest of the day.


	9. Chapter 9

N.B. Just realised; forgot the disclaimer on the last two chapters. As ever, none of this is mine. Again, thanks to those kind enough to leave feedback!

* * *

"Your patience never, ah, never ceases _uhn_ to ah, ah, amaze m-me…"

"Shutupshutupshutup shutthe_fuck_up bastard shut-up and fucking _come_."

"Ooh, you cha-armer."

The last word somehow broke into two languorous halves as Roy arched his back to an even more impossible angle and moaned his orgasm, the tightening of his inner muscles and the eroticism of his release sending Ed over the edge, pistoning his hips and hissing the other man's name.

They collapsed against each other, sticky and exhausted.

Roy rumbled happily. "Why did it take so long for us to come to this? We wasted all that time in coffee shops."

"M'stang," was Ed's only, faint reply, and Roy laughed against him, light and easy. Luckily, he seemed to be accepting it as some sort of weird endearment, a pun on his surname, which saved Ed explaining that, no, he was in fact saying someone else's name in bed.

Knowing Roy, he'd bloody well find it a turn-on anyway. He seemed to find most things a turn-on, including, but not limited to; apple pie; candle wax; Ed's waistcoat, carrots; leather-bound library books (oh, hell, Ed would have difficulty explaining _that_ stain to the librarian); prosthetic limbs (helpfully); collarbones; towels; and toothpaste. Hell, Ed only had to hint that he'd bent over at some point during the day and Roy would be on his knees with his fingers in Ed's pants, hoping to be in a similar position himself.

Which was, in itself, an odd thing, Ed reflected as he pulled carefully out and curled up next to the man; in all their, ahem, encounters, Roy had never seen fit to roll Ed onto his front and take him in a manly fashion. He simply saw to it, with absolutely no fuss or drama made about the situation, that he was the one to lay back (or sit up or twist onto his knees or...anything, really) and let Ed slide, slow and panting, inside him. It served to remind Ed all over again of the differences between him and the Colonel- whilst he wanted to take Roy, burned, _ached_ to be buried inside, he genuinely couldn't see the say that one touch of spark-gloved hands wouldn't be enough to send him to the floor.

Then there were the odd instants sometimes, just sometimes, he would look down along the lean, pale back and picture the scars of civil war where this Roy's pale flesh lay unmarked, and would clench his eyes closed and thrust harder with the sudden coil of _want_ in his belly, with a ferocious burn that _snapped_ (rather than sprang) to life inside him.

Ed suspected that Roy was well aware of this. Theirs was a mutual attraction and a mutual affection, but to never see Roy again…well, the thought upset him, but it didn't deaden his stomach in the way that saying goodbye to the Colonel had.

He'd still find it a turn-on. Pervert.

* * *

When did toneless greys begin to sharpen into colour? In an example of timing so cliché that it made Ed's head hurt, Spring was hitting Munich with a vengeance. Greenery sprang unbidden from between bricks and cobbles, carpeting the streets and decorating the walls in a patchwork pattern of moss and weeds. German weather was apparently useful for some things. Even if it was fucking annoying.

Ed tramped through slate-grey puddles, Roy a whimsical shadow alongside. "Tell me again why we're doing this?"

"Because you have spent the last 32 hours shut away in the library. I was bored and your friend was so worried that he told me where to find you." Roy grinned at Ed's huff of surprise, running a hand through his hair; he'd had it cut since Ed last saw him or, more likely, had sheared it off himself out of sheer boredom, and the choppy fall of spiked ebony about his face was doing nothing for Ed's concentration. "You must tell Herr Heiderich that he need not worry – your virtue is long since compromised."

Ed would have retorted, but an angry voice interrupted him.

"Schlachtross!"

Roy turned and inclined his head, with feline politeness, to the approaching uniform. "Officer Hughes, good afternoon."

The police officer ignored the pleasantry. "What have I told you about loitering in this area? I won't tolerate _your_ sort darkening the streets, you will leave immediately or suffer arrest."

Ed felt his muscles tense automatically, his heartbeat speeding slightly as years' worth of battle instincts prompted him to action. The Colonel would never have accepted such a slight- but then, the Colonel could barbecue petty annoyances like homophobic law enforcement officials.

"Arrest? On what charge?" Roy was challenging the officer, arching his back as he drew himself up to glare into the other's eyes. "The charge of daring to breathe the same air as our respected police? You have no proof that I've acted illegally."

"We don't need proof for your type, and you know very well what your reception in the cells would be," came the heated reply.

Ed had to suppress a shudder. That wasn't an empty threat, he knew, and he was as likely to be incriminated as Roy. His fists clenched.

"And upon whose honour would I receive that welcome, yours? You have no cause to harass me like this," Schlachtross hissed, venomously. "I wonder what the District General would make of your persecution."

Hughes' face twitched violently, and his mouth clamped into a grim, downturned line that barely concealed the clenched set of his jaw. "Just watch yourself, _citizen_," he spat, "And see that our paths don't cross."

"It would be my pleasure."

Ed watched the man go, his shoulders slumping as he let the tension flow out of him with a heavy exhale. A street brawl would certainly have eased some of his stress, but it wouldn't do to be imprisoned, or forced to move out of Munich.

He looked up at Roy, preparing to laugh off the incident, and paused when he saw his lover's face. Normally pale, his skin now looked utterly drained, almost translucent in its whiteness. The ever-present lines around dark eyes seemed somehow deeper, darker, and thin lips trembled almost imperceptibly. His eyes glistened, over-bright, and remained fixed on Hughes' retreating back.

Hesitantly, Ed reached out to grasp Roy's arm, surprised when long fingers met his halfway and wrapped about them in a firm clasp. "Let's go?" he half-asked, quietly.

"Let's."

They walked in silence for a while, their footsteps ringing loud against the cobbles. Ed felt the hand in his gradually relax, muscles loosening as they made their way to the park; by the time they reached the first ornate gateway, Roy's pace had settled to its usual pleasant amble, his jaw softening and his fingers growing loose and heavy in Ed's grip. "Want to talk?" he asked, dreading the answer.

Roy, not unexpectedly, laughed at that, the low chuckle that meant he knew exactly what Ed was thinking, and he pulled his hand away. "Of course not," he said, lightly. "It's such a dull story – childhood friends grown apart, resentment that I didn't follow him into active military service, a healthy dose of hatred for my mother's race, disgust for my...lifestyle. You can find the narrative repeated ad nauseam in any malingerer's bookshop."

"I don't go to those bookshops."

"You should. It'd be most educational."

Ed looked up at his lover; Roy was studying the scenery, devoid of any signs of tension or regret, but then the Colonel had always looked so stern and together behind his desk, even when the world was crumbling... "You love him."

The flinch was almost imperceptible, but it was there. Roy cleared his throat, determinedly not meeting Ed's eye, and shook out his hair. "As I said, ad nauseam. Now will you tell me about this 'Mustang' who haunts your thoughts?"

The breath caught in Ed's throat, sticking sharp as a bone splinter, and he shot Roy a baleful glare. "Told you, s'just a bloody joke."

"Indeed. Nothing at all to do with your tragedy, then."

"Fuck you, I'm not _tragic_."

"With two limbs missing and those melancholy eyes? I beg to differ."

"Oh, piss off."

Roy's smile was sudden, devilish, and it was such a relief to see wickedness replace sorrow in the twist of his lips that Ed didn't notice he was being advanced upon until Roy had him pressed against the nearest tree. "I don't think you want that," the man murmured, once he'd returned Ed's mouth to him. "I think you want to follow me to the nearest bush and prove me wrong."

"...Do _all_ walks in the park mean sex, to you?"

* * *

The ritual had been the same for the past two years, no reason to change anything now. When the day finally rolled around, Ed rose early to finalise his preparations; the bakery, already a hive of frenetic activity in the golden rose of dawn, had his order ready when he arrived and he carried it back to the apartment with ceremonial caution. The box was small, its contents dictated by the meagre depths of Ed's wallet, but it was an extravagance that the day demanded. The alchemist set the box aside when he got back, abandoning it to hang a gaily-coloured chain of folded paper around his room. It had taken him weeks to make the paperchain, what with his studies and Roy's insistent demands on his time, but that too was a tradition of the day.

Once the bedroom was suitably adorned, Ed took up the box once more, setting it on his knee and lifting the lid with cautious reverence. Within, nestled in layers of soft tissue paper to protect it against harm, was a tiny, exquisitely-iced cake. Ed smiled. "Happy birthday, Al," he said, quietly, and took up a fork to eat.

* * *

The other ritual of the day, the one that his little brother would no doubt disapprove of, required the use of a barstool, a full pocket and complete disregard for any damage being done to his liver.

This year's venue was Roy's local, the very same pub that the man had first dragged Ed into, and by the time the former sauntered in, the latter was deep in a misty, alcoholic haze, and feeling a magnanimous sort of goodwill towards humanity in general. He even granted Roy a wide, generous smile and slapped the seat of the stool next to him in welcome.

"What's your poison?" he asked, pleasantly, without a hint of a slur.

"Short, blond and troublesome."

Aha. Ahahahaha. Roy was such a card. Ed's smile widened and he bumped his forehead against the man's shoulder to demonstrate his appreciation of the jest. Unfortunately, once down, his head was just too damn tricky to lift, so he left it where it was.

Beneath his cheek, Roy's shoulder stiffened. "Someone actually _did_ poison you, didn't they? You're never this…relaxed. Edward, I called you _short_."

If Ed's hands twitched in momentary wish to wrap themselves around Roy's neck and squeeze all the snidey remarks out of him, well, his current motor control wasn't quite perfect and not all nerve signals being broadcast through his body were voluntary. He turned the motion into a long, slow reach out to the bar for his glass.

Taking a huge gulp (funny how it stopped burning the more you drank), Ed let out a contented sigh and cradled the glass to his chest. Roy signalled the barman with a flick of his fingers and Ed watched him, blearily.

"So, what brought you so very low that you decided to give drunkenness another try?" Roy asked, as a brimming glass was placed in front of him.

Ed wrinkled his nose. "Huh?"

"Why are you here, Edward?"

"Whisky," Ed grinned, waving his glass at Roy and grinning wider when it made the world rain amber liquid. Whisky rain…that would be pretty cool. He'd just have to work out the chemical composition, perfect the array, then wait for a decent rainstorm and cla-

No. No clapping. No alchemy. Clapping here was just an empty, mocking round of applause.

He stared mournfully at his now-empty glass. His happy warm feelings seemed to be draining unhelpfully away. The alcohol wasn't doing anything to stop them, which was very rude, considering that's why he'd bought it in the first place. As soon as he regained possession of his tongue, he was going to be having strong words with the barman about his ineffectual spirits.

Roy's hand, hot on his shoulder, made him blink slowly and lift his head to meet black eyes. He stared at them, entranced, fascinated by their dark, mysterious beauty, then realised abruptly that Roy was trying to talk to him.

"-sually I am all for a full frontal assault upon the senses, but I think you're hitting it a bit hard. You're not a drinker, and whisky takes horrific revenge on you in the morning."

Roy's mouth was flapping around so unnecessarily, Ed noticed. It would be much better if he brought it over here and flapped it up and down on Ed's mouth. That might make the happy come back. Roy was handsome enough to make the happy want to come back, even Ed's sulky, petulant, uncooperative happy, that never stuck around long enough for Ed to properly enjoy it. Roy was better at happy than Ed, but then he was also older, Ed wondered if it was a matter of practice…

"You're not listening to a word I'm saying are you?"

"Hmf?"

And now Roy was giving him one of those frown-y, scowl-y looks that made Ed think about the Colonel, and he didn't want to think about the Colonel, because that made his stomach hurt when he'd drunk as much as this, and Roy's hands were much warmer anyway, and he could reach out and _touch_ Roy.

See? Like that.

His hands couldn't get a good grip on the man, however, he was just fumbling and grasping at Roy's sleeves and lapels and pockets, and he felt the world tip alarmingly around him, lurch sickeningly sideways, and he might have fallen, if it weren't for Roy's chest helpfully getting in between him and the floor. He nuzzled it, all lean and bony, to say thank you, and decided that it was such a nice chest that he was going to stay on it for a little while. He could hear the _lub-dub_ of Roy's heart-beat, which was also very nice, and all in all it was much better leaning on Roy than trying to get a warm embrace from whisky, which just made his head spin and his chest ache and his voice go all wobbly.

Roy wasn't talking to him anymore. Instead, he felt an arm wrap around him and heave him off the stool and onto his feet, his face still buried somewhere in Roy's shirt. His legs were unwilling to hold him up, they wanted to stay and get more whisky, but the rest of Ed wanted to stay with Roy, and Roy seemed very determined to go outside judging by the stubborn grip he had on Ed's waist, and his complete lack of slowing down despite Ed's inner anatomical disagreements.

The crisp, cold air outside the bar cleared his head a little, but he still clung muzzily to his lover, unwilling to let go for reasons he couldn't really understand. "Roy," he murmured, just to feel the shape of the name on his drink-heavy tongue, and tugged where his hands were fisted in the man's clothes.

"I should have known you'd be a melancholy drunk," came the breezy remark. "Come on, Herr Elric, you need a bed and some sleep."

"Bed?"

"Bed."

"Don't wanna."

With a jolt, Ed felt himself being hefted further upright into a more natural walking position. He slumped back against Roy as soon as he could. The night was cold, and Roy was warm, and his legs were wobbly as a new-born's; the equation was simple enough, even to Ed's befuddled mind. "Sleeping hurts my brain," he informed his escort, in complete seriousness.

"It does?"

Ed nodded, rubbing his cheek into Roy's shoulder. "I always dream bad things," he said, conspiratorially, "like Al an' an' the Gate an' Al in the Gate, and I don't wanna see that, not ever, not Al…"

"Al meaning Alfons? Heiderich?"

Ed giggled. Roy was silly- Heiderich couldn't do alchemy! "No nono no, my brother. Al. From the, the, the other side. "

Roy's pace slowed. That cheered Ed up a bit- now he could concentrate on his legs more. "The other side of what?

"Th' Gate, moron. Al's on the oth-other side, an' I'm here an' I bet he's, he's even grown tal- lots, cos he's my brother. An' an' he's _got_ to grow, because he has to be alive cos he does. It's his _birthday_."

"This is fascinating. Why have I never got you this drunk before? You've forgotten how to not talk. Not that you had such a firm grasp on that concept in the first place…"

Somehow, in between attempting to headbutt the floor and also walk in a straight line, Ed ended up planting his face in Roy's chest once more. "Roy," he breathed, his words hot against soft cotton, "you're warmer than Al…"

The man paused, wrapped his arm tighter about Ed's waist. Ed mumbled a happy response. "I forgot," Roy said, quietly. "Your prosthetics, the metal…"

"S'not bad," Ed insisted, woozily, as the infernal walking began again. "S'not bad like, like aut-automail, tha' hurts like a sonofabitch."

Unbidden, an image of Winry frowning in disgust at his new limbs made Ed snort on a laugh, and Roy shushed him, obviously thinking his verbal diarrhoea had reached its pinnacle.

"We're nearly home, now."

Ed snorted again. Roy couldn't really have been more wrong, could he? Moron. Pretty, but a moron. Quite a strong moron, though, he could semi-lift Ed up all these stairs to his apartment and still find the strength to keep him upright until they reached the safe haven of the bed.

The alchemist collapsed gratefully onto the soft surface as soon as he was dropped, thankful that the world had stopped moving and he could rest. Stupid moronic Roy, making him walk all that way…

The Colonel was a moron sometimes too.

Struck by that thought, Ed turned his face up to Roy, who was giving him more frown-y looks.

Ed smiled, dopily. "You look like th' Colonel wh-when you do that."

"The Colonel?"

"M'stang."

Roy's frown cleared, just a little; Ed watched the lines in his forehead smooth, fascinated by the flex of his skin. "Ah, so there _is _a Herr Mustang."

The alchemist nodded. Roy was smart, for a moron. "The, the Colonel…he al-always smirked, 'cept when he was frowning. Made me so, so an-angry…"

A kiss, gentle on his forehead. "You're beautiful when you're angry. You light up like one of your rockets."

Ed snorted. "Th' Colonel prob'ly di'n't think so."

"Then he must have been blind, or exceedingly dull-witted." The soft touch of a fingertip tracing his cheekbones made Ed startle, then relax with a sigh into the caress.

"You're diff'rent fr'm him. He never would, would've, have…"

"He never wanted you?"

Ed shook his head, nearly poking his eye out when he forgot that Roy was still touching him.

Dark eyes were impenetrable; Ed was losing himself in them as Roy cupped his cheek. "Did you want him to want you?"

"N-"

The sob choked out of Ed's throat before he knew it was happening, and suddenly he was being yanked forwards into a familiar-smelling chest, in which he buried his tears and shook, hiding in the faded cotton and wiry-strong arms.

Breath in his hair, the pressure of a kiss, it made him shake harder. "He must have been an exceptionally dim individual, to not want you."

"Too…too young," Ed choked out, unable to breathe around his own drunken misery. "Too much, too much to, to do…too young, too br-bratty…_hated_ him, _hate _him n-now…"

Light, sweet-smelling fall of his own hair about his shoulders, loosened from its ponytail. "You hate me, too."

"Yeah." Ed stared, through blurry, sore, teary eyes, at the sight of his fingers, pale fake skin and blunt-ended, calloused flesh. They were entwined in Roy's shirt, twisted up in it like Ed himself was twisted in the man's embrace, held fast, helpless, in the depths of his hopeless attraction. "Yeah…but you…" he paused, trying to coordinate his heavy tongue and tired mind. "You c'n smile," he offered, after a moment's thought. He snuffled, breathing hoarsely around the ache in his throat, the tears in his mouth.

The arms about his back loosened, Roy pulled away, and Ed tilted his head back, confusedly, just in time to see his lover direct a measuring gaze at him, then lean down to take his lips, firm and warm and slow, moving steady as a heartbeat against him. "I can do more than smile," Roy murmured, soft words breathed straight into Ed's mouth, tickling his tongue, making him yearn forwards to claim a second kiss.

"Roy…"

"You need to sleep."

"N-no…"

"Go to sleep."

"I-"

"_Sleep_."


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer; I do not own _Fullmetal Alchemist_

A/N: Thanks, again, to my lovely and long-suffering readers, particularly those who reviewed, I'm very grateful! And now, some answers about the mysterious Roy Schlachtross...

xxx

The lecturer's voice had long since become a meaningless drone when Ed glanced at the clock for the seventh time, chin propped on his hand, eyes drooping with tiredness. Of all the things for Roy to be right about, the goddamned hangover was the absolute worst. He sighed, wincing as his stomach attempted to leave his body via his throat, and swallowed hard to keep it in check. The other students were being very careful not to invade his personal space, which had apparently extended to about a six foot diameter; he must look an absolute fright. _You're beautiful when you're angry._

Ed swore under his breath, the recollection driving heat into his cheeks; of all the people to find him, nearly paralytic with whisky and misery because it was Al's god-damned birthday. Still, at least it meant he'd woken up in a bed this year, even if it was someone else's. Waking up on park benches was not something he'd ever wanted to become accustomed to. That sort of agonising stiffness was almost enough to convince him that the whole damn mess wasn't a dream at all.

And just why had Roy let him spout all that bullshit about the Gate without batting an eyelid? How insane did he think Ed was? All Alfons had ever done was laugh at his stories of alchemy so fast it was almost like magic, alchemy that _burned...Ah, so there _is _ a Herr Mustang? _Of course there was a 'Herr Mustang', stupid Roy, he'd been calling the bastard's name in bed for long enough, but Roy hadn't looked surprised, from what Ed could remember, he'd just accepted it, as if he'd already known he was a substitute.

The alchemist wondered, for a moment, who he was a substitute for, and determinedly did not think about the hatred in Officer Hughes' eyes.

xxx

"Edward."

Ed paused in hanging up his coat, his mind still foggy with lack of sleep and worrisome confessions, then turned to face his flatmate. The day after Al's birthday, and here was Alfons, his face twisted with something that looked like misery. "Not like you to miss a lecture, what's up?"

Alfons hesitated, fidgeting. It _was_ unusual for him to skip a lecture, but the heavy dampness of late Spring seemed to have settled uneasily in his delicate lungs; he looked paler than usual and he wasn't even dressed, a blanket slung over nightshirt-clad shoulders, and his voice sounded rough with sickness. Worry coiled, restlessly, in Ed's stomach. "Alfons, are you-"

"Your friend, Roy," Alfons blurted out, hurriedly. "I don't think you know...Edward, he's not what you think, Hughes came to talk to me and he's not just some...You...You need to know..."

xxx

He punched before he could think about it, before he could even begin to process the image that met his eyes, then hoisted the groaning recipient up from the floor by his collar, ignoring his frantic protests. "Get the _fuck _out," he snarled, fury white-hot as it thundered through his veins, and the dark-haired man flinched away from him, up and running as soon as Ed released him.

"That," said a voice from the bed, breathless but utterly unconcerned, "was incredibly rude, Herr Elric."

Ed span with a growl, fist clenched so tight his fingers ached, and glared at the man on the bed. "You're a _whore._"

"Does it surprise you?" The cocky tilt to his jaw was mocking, challenging. "You said I looked good on my back."

"But…I…you," Ed couldn't help the stuttering, his mind was tripping over words too fast for his tongue to wrap around them.

Roy, still naked and splayed on the bed, still _hard_, leaned up on his elbows. The curve of his lean body drew Ed's eyes, willing or no. Slowly, deliberately, his gaze never straying from Ed, Roy stroked down his chest and to his hips to trace the red marks of the other man's hands, marks that would be bruises. Ed winced as Roy dug his nails into the marks and arched his back, groaning helplessly. The proud cock twitched in response, already wet with precum, flushed red and _painful_-looking. Instead of taking it into his grip, however, the dark-haired man curled over on himself, framing his dick with his arms as he reached lower, between his legs to the stretched muscles of his anus, which he massaged with his fingertips, then panted heavily as he plunged two fingers inside himself.

The room swam dizzyingly before Ed for a moment as lust swamped him, he was floating on a strange light-headedness as blood surged to his groin and he took several steps towards his lover before he realised what he was doing. Horror at his actions and betrayal and rage at Roy's made him forcibly control himself, reel in his lust and leash it, the intensity of it making him grit his teeth and sway. "Why did you let him touch you for _money_?" the blond managed to growl, harshly.

Ignoring him, Roy continued to pleasure himself, his hips beginning to rock, his face spasming briefly as he let out a groan. From the angle of his wrists, Ed could guess what he had found within himself, and the thought made him squirm with _want_. "Roy!" he barked angrily, clenching his eyes shut. "Just fucking _stop_, you bastard, stop!"

The furious order had quite the opposite effect. Roy let out a guttural moan, then the tense atmosphere filled with wet, obscene noises. Ed had heard those sounds often enough to know, even with his eyes closed, that his lover was fisting his slippery cock frantically as he fucked himself on his fingers. Disgusted, aroused, helpless, the alchemist span on his heels and stormed from the room, slamming the door with an almighty crash and striding to the bathroom. He wrenched the door shut behind himself and stood in upright, trembling fury for a few seconds before dropping to his knees and scrabbling with his trousers. His stomach roiling with nausea, Ed jerked himself off in quick, short, desperate yanks, then sank to the floor, pressing his hot face to cool tile and scrunching his eyes tight shut.

Moments later, the door opened quietly behind him. He didn't move to cover himself, or the evidence that was wet and sticky on his palm, across his belly. A familiar hand hauled him upright and he collapsed bonelessly on Roy, his cheek hitting the thin, ratty material of his robe. "How many people do you sleep with a week?" he asked, dully.

"Not as many as you might think, the rent is fortunately low."

Ed snorted. Roy's voice was flat, with no inflection to suggest his emotions. The Colonel, again. "Hughes was right. You're a cheap fucking pervert slut."

"I resent that. My charges are, in fact, quite high, given the discretion with which I provide my services."

Ed's eyes _burned_. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Why do you _fuck people _for_ money_?" Ed's rage flared, bright and sharp as a knife blade, then banked as familiar hands stroked up and down his back.

Roy shifted. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it fucking matters!" Ed _spat_, his fingers curling into tight fists, clenching into the material of Roy's robe. "For weeks, _months_, we've…you, I, we've…and, and now _this_…I could understand if you _liked_ them, fucker, you think I wouldn't have others? But, but, for _money_…"

There came a wry, humourless choke of laughter. "And what would you have done, had I told you? Would you have granted a second look to a filthy, male prostitute, or would you have kicked me aside like the esteemed Officer Hughes? Am I not to _select _my lovers occasionally, to sleep with someone because I _choose _him? Haven't I been a good lover to you, Edward?"

"But…but you're not _stupid_, you don't have to do…do _that_, you're clever enough to be a scientist or, or a lawyer…"

That harsh laughter interrupted him again. "Oh really? Clever enough? But that's such a lofty dream for the bastard son of a Jewish whore. A scientist, a dark-haired, black-eyed scientist in this pure, 'Aryan' Germany? Why would I waste my time when I've known how to pleasure a man since I was younger even than you?"

Swifter than a finger snap, the blond's white-hot anger cooled to a lump of hard steel in his gut, like a molten sword blade plunged into water. "Younger?" He felt sick.

Roy shrugged as best he could whilst holding Ed upright. "And now I like sex, so at least there's some benefit."

"You…you…"

"It's okay, Edward." The older man had never sounded so serious, never reminded Ed of the Colonel so strongly that he _ached_ for him, for the Roy Mustang whose shoulders held the weight of the world, but whose eyes danced with a fire that Ed was beginning to understand. "I'm not some damaged child anymore, or helpless victim. I have some choice in my tortures, these days."

"That's…not right," Ed managed to choke out eventually. "If…if it's money, _I_ could…"

Arms about him gripped tighter. "No. You're barely living as it is. I'll take your bed, your time, your cock, but not your pity. If I wanted someone to care about me, I'd have found them by now."

"Then what-"

He couldn't see the smile, but he heard it in the next words. "You're my friend, Edward. I like you, I especially like to sleep with you, and I like those heart-breaking stories you tell. I've never met anyone with eyes as sad as yours. One might almost fall in love with those eyes."

He couldn't have stopped the bitter laughter if he tried. Roy didn't seem inclined to stop him, just let him shake in nigh-on hysterical paroxysms until he slumped, exhausted. Only then was he pulled back and a kiss pressed to his forehead. "Come, now. The bathroom floor is no place to be having such a discussion. There's no room for you to swing when you hit me."

Ed growled. "Not going to hit you."

"No? Perhaps you should."

"Don't fucking tempt me."

Roy's arms loosened, dropped, and he looked up to see the man's mouth settle into a tight, thin line. "What are you going to do, then?"

The day after Al's birthday and the dream was a nightmare, once again. Ed sat up, tugging himself free of Roy, and straightened his clothes as best he could, ignoring the unpleasant stickiness. "I need to think," he said, shortly, and clambered awkwardly to his feet, fumbling the prosthetic leg. He didn't look back at Roy, hunched at his feet with debauchery written across his skin. "Don't fuck anyone whilst I'm gone," he added, the cruelty dropping carelessly from his lips, and with that, he left.

xxx

Dawn light, soft and golden, stroked insistently at Ed's eyelids as he swam groggily up from the darkness of sleep.

He yawned, keeping his eyes closed, and stretched, wringing the last remnants of sleep out of his limbs. The customary warmth behind him let out a rumble of protest as he shifted and a long pale arm emerged from the blankets to hook around his waist, rolling him onto his side so that his back was pressed to Roy's front. Contented breaths wafted against his hair, which made him wriggle, and Roy nuzzled at the back of his neck, dropping a kiss to his hairline before relaxing back into happy repose.

Ed yawned again, opening bleary eyes and wrinkling his nose as the overlong hair of his bangs tickled his face. It was early. The chill in the room, coupled with the heaviness of his limbs and eyelids, was enough to tell him that.

Blinking sleepily, Ed snuggled back into the warmth offered by the bed's owner. Roy murmured something unintelligible and his arm tightened. They weren't particularly cuddly, excessive physical contact wasn't something they did, but he could be excused for taking advantage of comfort when his lover was too unconscious to do anything about it.

He was just contemplating, in tandem with his morning erection, the pleasant business of stroking Roy awake then demanded payback from the man's oh-so-talented mouth when memory careened into him like an out-of-control steam locomotive.

The alchemist was out of the bed and pressed against the opposite wall faster than the oxidation of hydrogen. Memories clamoured for attention in his mind's eye, the hulking figure of a man on top of his lover, Roy's moans as he pleasured himself, the confession, the long, weary hours of trekking through faceless Munich streets trying so hard to _understand_, then wandering back, like a battered dog, to the cause of his distress.

He glared at Roy's slumbering form and, in need of relief from his enraged energy, threw a picture frame at it.

Roy jolted upright, then looked dazedly around, rubbing his shoulder where impact had been made. He caught sight of the snarling, furious Ed and let out his breath in a resigned sigh, flopping back onto the sheets as if every ounce of energy had been drained out of him. He tossed an arm over his eyes. "What?" he asked, testily.

"You're a prostitute," Ed accused, pointing a wavering finger that Roy couldn't see anyway.

"Ah, he has the capacity to learn."

"Don't start with me, yoyo pants, you have _no damn right_-"

"Edward, if you are going to storm out, could you simply get on with it without all of the screaming? It is _inhumanly_ early."

The deflated Ed's sails a little and he subsided for a moment, his righteous anger checked by Roy's sleep-fogged inability to recognise the danger he was in by Elric-baiting.

"I just don't get it," the blond said, in a plaintive tone, after a moment's pause.

That seemed to surprise Roy. He sat up in bed, the sheets pooled at his waist (Ed tried, _tried_, not to flick his eyes down) and rubbed at his eyes, focusing them on Ed once they were clear. "There's little to explain, you heard it all last night," the man said, slowly.

"No, you don't…I get _what_ you're doing, I get why you have to be so secretive about it, I just don't get…Why do you _keep_ doing it? Don't spout that 'poor little racially-impaired me' bullshit, Schlachtross, you're more than clever enough to circumvent _any_ prejudice, and you've got to be making a tidy profit from all of those fat, rich Generals and," a split-second hesitation because even now that word had power over him, "Colonels, there's no reason why you shouldn't just drop it and train for something better."

If anything, Roy seemed amused by the idea. "'Just drop it'? Do you have any idea how powerful these men are, Edward? Do you think, for even a second, that they would let me move on to a different life, with the filthy, degenerate knowledge that I have. I'd have to move cities, countries, maybe, and I really cannot face another chunk of my life as a fugitive refugee."

Ed's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "You're not changing your life because you _can't be bothered_?"

"Please, lower that pitch, the neighbourhood dogs have suffered enough abuse already."

"_Roy_."

The man scratched his hair, brushing the sleep-dishevelled mop out of his face. His eyes, Ed noticed, looked tired, worn, the lines about them as deep as the Colonel's. "I have never expected to be happy," he murmured, his voice, for once, weighted by bare honesty, "and to be content? That's more than I had ever hoped for. I am no worse off than anyone who is struggling for a living in this butchered, starving cur of a country. Life is the moment of pleasure we snatch between beatings, you should know that, with your miserable, miserable eyes; you've seen darker than I have."

Ed flinched at the accusation and Roy's face softened. His next words were in a gentler tone. "Not everyone has a burning ambition to feed their lives to. Some of us are just living."

"But-"

Roy closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the wall. "No more. Germany is awash with whores, you shouldn't be so surprised. Come back to bed, Edward."

_What are you doing, Edward?_

Ed stood his ground, unmoving, as his lover shuffled back under the covers and laid his head on the pillow. He couldn't claim to understand this, couldn't claim to approve or be comfortable…but it _was_ very early, and Roy was so warm…

He trod cautiously back to the bed and slid under the sheets, hesitating for a heat-beat before he reached out to touch Roy's shoulder. The man visibly relaxed at the contact, and rolled onto his side to lay his head on Ed's chest.

They breathed together.

Ed cleared his throat, awkwardly, and said "So, you're what, a rent boy?"

A snort. "Courtesan, please. They have to wine and dine me before I'll suck their cock or let them bend me over a pool table."

A pause, then, weakly, "Pool table?"

"Some of the gentlemen like a game of billiards after dinner, whilst they drink their brandy and bore me with insufferable stories about their wives or their career or the state of the country."

"Huh. Can't imagine you playing something as sophisticated as billiards."

The smirk was wicked. "And this _after_ you experience my prowess with balls."

"…You did not just say that." Ed was somewhat relieved- that arrogant, flirtatious tone, _that_ was the Roy he knew, not the odd, hurting stranger of a few minutes ago.

Roy chuckled, curling onto his back like a satisfied leopard, and looked at Ed through lowered lashes. "I'm wounded," he purred, looking nothing of the sort, "I shall have to give you a _thorough_ demonstration of my skills."

"That really won't be necessary, we're still having this discussion and I'm not going to let this go just because you're a shameless slut with oh_god_ don't stop."

This time, the chuckle was muffled, and its vibrations were enough to make Ed whimper.

xxx

"You…you're still..."

Ed rubbed his eyes, closing the door behind him and feeling the weight of his tiredness for just a moment- tired of this grey world, tired of Roy's lies, his smile, tired of Alfons, and tired of being tired of Alfons, who was his friend, who had been so good to him. "Yeah," he admitted, softly. "I'm still with him."

Alfons recoiled, slightly- Ed heard his breathing change.

"I don't care what he is," the alchemist said, slowly. "I don't care. When he's with me, he's enough."

A hand touched his shoulder, startling-sudden and hesitant. "Then I'll say no more."

xxx

Of course the knowledge made it different. The sex was never quite the same again.

Ed had never considered that Roy was exclusively with him- but for lack of offers, he wasn't exclusively Roy's either- but finding out that his lover auctioned off the same body he fucked and stroked and licked was a touch perturbing, to say the least. Now, when he traced the smooth curves of Roy's shoulders, he wondered how many times, how many different ways, the man had been caressed there. He wondered how many lips had ghosted their way down his throat, how many fingertips had found the ticklish spot below his belly button.

Did Roy's 'clients' just wait for him to bend over and get straight in there? Did they seduce him, or expect to be seduced? How many cocks had the man sucked, staring up through lust-hazy eyes with swollen, spit-shiny lips and hollowed cheeks?

Unsurprisingly, the last thought primarily occurred when he was a tongue-flick away from orgasm. That, in turn, meant he was getting very mixed signals from his own body about how he genuinely felt about the situation. Whilst part of him wanted to sink his teeth into Roy's neck so the other men would know they were trespassing (poaching? Rustling? Plundering? Ed honestly didn't have the right word), there was a much darker, _much_ darker part that taunted him with images of Roy on his back for another man but his eyes fixed on Ed, or of Ed fucking the prostitute on his hands and knees and looking along the planes of that pale back to see Roy's mouth and throat stuffed full of cock, utterly, helplessly _used_.

Waking up from _that_ particular flight of imagination, hard and breathless, made him seriously doubt what little was left of his sanity. It would drive him to drink, if Roy didn't do enough of that for both of them.

Irritatingly, Roy was completely aware of it. He wasn't exactly helping matters either. Every now and then he would stare at Ed (from across the room, across the table, across the narrow gap bridging their eyes between kisses, over his shoulder) with the barest hint of his hyena-smile and say, "If you wanted to, I'd make sure he was handsome," before laughing at Ed's stricken look.

Invariably, Ed responded with a scowl, or an extra-harsh thrust to make the man's eyes roll, or a kiss that was all teeth and violence. Sometimes 'oh fucking hell no' just wasn't clear enough.

xxx

_A/N: Yes, it's a cliché, but it's a fun one, right?_


End file.
